EDITH;
 
 EDITH; 
 
 THE LIGHT OF HOME, 
 
 BY ELIZA B. DAVIS. 
 
 ' Oh, how much more doth beauty beauteous seem, 
 By that sweet ornament which truth doth give ! " 
 
 SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 
 CROSBY, NICHOLS, AND COMPANY, 
 
 111, WASHINGTON STREET. 
 
 1856.
 
 Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1855, by 
 
 CROSBY, NICHOLS, AND COMPANY, 
 
 In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. 
 
 BOSTON : 
 
 PRINTED BY JOHN WILSON AXD SO.V, 
 22, SCHOOI, STREET.
 
 EDITH. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 " Like the daystar in the wave 
 Sinks a hero to his grave, 
 
 'Midst the dewfall of a nation's tears. 
 Happy is he o'er whose decline 
 The smiles of home may soothing shine, 
 
 And light him down the Tale of years ; 
 But, oh, how grand they sink to rest 
 Whose eyes are closed on Victory's breast! " 
 
 " OH, Mrs. Courtenay ! mamma ! do look from the 
 window, and see this beautiful ship coming up the 
 Thames ! Do you hear the salute from Tilbury 
 Fort ? But her flags are not flying where they 
 usually are ; they are half-mast, I believe : what is 
 the reason ? " These inquiries were made by a girl 
 twelve years old, as she watched, from the window, 
 the busy scene on the river. She paused ; for low 
 sobs from the lady she addressed arrested her 
 attention ; and, as she turned towards the sofa, she 
 saw Mrs. Courtenay, pale and agitated, trying to 
 support her half-fainting form against the pillow 
 
 which rested on the couch. 
 
 1 
 
 2068415
 
 EDITH ; 
 
 With the quick instinct of filial affection, connect- 
 ing the ship with her absent father, she exclaimed, 
 "What is the matter? Papa! papa! what of 
 him ? " Mrs. Courtenay drew the alarmed child 
 towards her, and, folding her in her arms, said, in a 
 low and solemn tone, " Edith, that ship bears all 
 that remains to you of your father. He fell in 
 Canada, in the recent struggle with the United States, 
 as a soldier should die, fighting bravely for his 
 country. You know your father served under 
 Gen. Vincent, at Fort George : it came into the 
 hands of the Americans, and your parent was among 
 the wounded." 
 
 Edith lifted her pale face from the bosom of her 
 kind friend, and, bursting into a torrent of tears, 
 exclaimed, " I am, then, alone in the world, an 
 orphan ! " 
 
 " Not alone, dearest Edith : are not my husband 
 and myself still your guardians and friends ? Be- 
 lieve me, my child, we shall try, by every tender 
 and affectionate attention, to supply to you the parents 
 you have lost. Are not my children like brother 
 and sisters to you? I do not wish to check the 
 indulgence of your sorrow, it is what nature de- 
 mands for the father who has been taken from you ; 
 but I hope the time will come when I shall again 
 see you the happy Edith you have been. You must 
 try to bear this affliction." 
 
 " Oh, never, never can I be happy again ! My 
 noble father dead ! he whom I loved so fondly.
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 3 
 
 His remains even now, you tell me, have been per- 
 mitted by government to be brought home for inter- 
 ment. And I never to look upon him again ! How 
 can you talk to me of ever being happy again ? I 
 am fatherless, motherless ! " 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay saw the uselessness of reasoning 
 with her young charge , and, begging her to rest on 
 the sofa, she gently covered her with a shawl, and, 
 placing herself near her, watched her anxiously, until 
 nature, exhausted by the intenseness of her grief, 
 found relief in profound repose. Mrs. Courtenay 
 sat by the couch of the afflicted child, gazing with 
 earnestness upon her, as she remained for some time 
 unconscious of the sorrow which had thus suddenly 
 shadowed her happiness, and which she well knew 
 would return, in all its bitterness, when she awoke. 
 An almost impassive calm was on the features of the 
 sleeping girl for an hour ; the lights and shadows 
 which so often played about her intelligent face had 
 departed ; a quiet and almost holy serenity sat on. 
 her brow.
 
 EDITH J 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 " And, as she trod her path aright, 
 
 Power from her very garments stole ; 
 For such is the mysterious might 
 God grants the upright soul." 
 
 MR. COURTENAY was an American by birth, but had 
 spent many years in England in mercantile pursuits. 
 He was a man of a noble nature, high-spirited, and 
 strongly attached to the land of his birth. 
 
 In one of his visits to England, he became ac- 
 quainted with a clergyman's family of the name of 
 Percival. The rector of a church in Kent, Mr. 
 Percival lived in comparative affluence, and had been 
 blessed with two daughters, ore of whom, Ellen, had 
 attracted Mr. Courtenay by the charm of manner, and 
 refinement of conversation, which had made her a 
 general favorite. They formed a strong attachment 
 to each other, and, at the period our narrative com- 
 mences, had been married many years. 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay was one of those somewhat rare 
 characters, a finished lady, possessing all the virtues 
 which could adorn a woman in the most exalted 
 sense of the word. She had been educated in France,
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 5 
 
 where she acquired many accomplishments less com- 
 mon in the days of her youth than at present ; had 
 an opportunity, during her residence in a convent, 
 to cultivate a naturally fine mind, and gain that 
 polish of manner so peculiar to the French. 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay never forgot the courtesies of life, 
 or the dignity which belonged to her sex. Tender 
 in feeling towards all who needed sympathy, indul- 
 gent to the erring, forgiving towards the wayward, 
 she seemed the very spirit of kindness. Her charity 
 was diffusive as the sun. She relieved the wants of 
 the needy far more liberally than many whose ability 
 to do so was greater. A tale of distress never fell 
 unheeded on her ear. Her noble heart warmed 
 towards the Buffering. Her purse opened to the des- 
 titute, and her words comforted the sorrowful. 
 
 In the house of the Courtenays, peace reigned. 
 Mr. Courtenay was a devoted husband, an affection- 
 ate father, the sunbeam of his home. He was loved 
 most tenderly by all ; perhaps more intensely from 
 the circumstance of his being at times obliged to visit 
 the United States, leaving his family in England. 
 The shade which rested upon his household during 
 his absence, deepened by a consciousness of the dan- 
 gers to which he was exposed in crossing the Atlan- 
 tic, made him of course doubly dear; and, to his 
 children, no joy was equal to the announcement, 
 " Papa has arrived ! " 
 
 Mr. Gourtenay's residence was in the quiet town 
 of Milton, on the banks of the Thames, directly 
 
 1*
 
 6 EDITH ; 
 
 opposite Tilbury Fort, so renowned for the visit of 
 Queen Elizabeth, when she took leave of her admi- 
 rals and other officers ere they embarked to meet the 
 " Invincible Armada." 
 
 Mrs. Strickland says, "The day on which Eliza- 
 beth went, in royal pomp and martial array, to visit 
 the camp at Tilbury, has generally been considered 
 the most interesting of her whole life. Never, cer- 
 tainly, did she perform the part of the female leader 
 of an heroic nation with more imposing effect than 
 on this occasion." The situation of this fort was 
 beautiful beyond description : its front stood proudly, 
 with its strong bastions overlooking the Thames ; a 
 heavy sea wall ; powerful guns, presenting an appear- 
 ance so impregnable as seemingly to threaten defiance 
 to every thing which might dare approach. This 
 strength and power were beautifully relieved against 
 its groves of oaks, " old as time," its hawthorn 
 hedges, and smiling plains. 
 
 The view from Mr. Courtenay's house was of 
 course very lovely, combining so many objects of 
 interest, and animated by the ships which constantly 
 passed to and from London. Between the house 
 and the river were tastefully planned gardens, in 
 which could be found all fruits and flowers, from 
 
 " The silvery almond flower, 
 Which blooms on a leafless tree," 
 
 to the humble violet and gooseberry. 
 
 It was delightful to turn from the fortress, and 
 rest the eye on the plants -and fruits with which
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 7 
 
 nature and cultivation had adorned these gardens in 
 prodigal luxuriance. Here were Mr. Courtenay's 
 walks with his family ; here both himself and wife 
 loved to pause, amid the enchanting scenery, and 
 direct the minds of their children to serious contem- 
 plation, where all about them was so well qualified 
 to awaken a -taste for the beauties of nature. Edith 
 was always their companion. Her father, Capt. Da- 
 cres, of the British army, had been for many years 
 a warmly attached friend of Mr. Courtenay ; and, 
 when death took from him the companion and de- 
 voted wife, he confided his motherless little girl to 
 the care of Mrs. Courtenay (her mother's only sister 
 having died some few months after her marriage), 
 and felt perfectly convinced, under the guidance of 
 such a friend, her mother's loss would never be 
 realized. 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay had four daughters, one older, 
 and three younger, than Edith ; and one son, her 
 eldest child. The eldest daughter and son were at 
 boarding-school at the commencement of this narra- 
 tive, but expected home in a few days, as a governess 
 had been temporarily engaged for the girls, till Edith, 
 who had been a delicate child, but who was daily 
 gaining strength of constitution from constant expo- 
 sure to the air, should be sufficiently robust to endure 
 the trials of boarding-school life. With renovated 
 health came a joyousness of spirit Edith had not 
 hitherto exhibited. Her thoughts, for many weeks, 
 had dwelt upon the general belief that peace between
 
 8 EDITH ; 
 
 England and the United States would soon occur, 
 and restore her beloved parent to his country and 
 his child. 
 
 Mr. Courtenay had heard, by a recent arrival from 
 Halifax, of a severe wound Capt. Dacres had received, 
 and, with his wife, had been obliged to practise 
 the greatest self-command to conceal from Edith 
 their anxiety and fears for her father's life. A fri- 
 gate had been for several days expected, which 
 would, in all probability, give some decided informa- 
 tion. Her arrival had been delayed at the Nore ; 
 but a letter, written by an officer on board to announce 
 the worst, reached Mr. Courtenay the day before the 
 " Boadicea " passed up the Thames. 
 
 " Should I fall, either by the sword or pestilence, 
 I earnestly beg to be brought home for interment," 
 had been the wish expressed by Capt. Dacres 
 when embarking with his regiment for Canada ; and 
 to fulfil this duty to his friend, and to place his 
 remains in the tomb of his cherished wife, as well as 
 to learn the particulars of his last hours, Mr. Cour- 
 tenay had that morning gone to London. 

 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 ' It is not length of years which lends 
 
 The highest loveliness to those 
 Whose memory with our being blends, 
 Whose worth within our bosom glows." 
 
 EDITH awoke to a full sense of her irreparable loss. 
 Her first exclamation was, " My papa dead ! dead ! 
 Am I indeed an orphan ? " Her heart echoed the 
 fearful words ; and, hiding her face on the shoulder 
 of Mrs. Courtenay, she wept long and bitterly. 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay's arms enclosed her, as a precious 
 treasure committed by Heaven to her charge ; and, 
 mentally promising never to forget its sacredness, 
 her own tears fell on the glossy ringlets of the 
 afflicted child, as she pressed her to her heart, and 
 whispered sweet words of peace and hope. But 
 these were unheeded ; the sobs of Edith amounted 
 almost to convulsions ; and her friend thought it 
 best to allow her grief a free indulgence, knowing 
 that nature required this relief of tears, which would 
 probably soon exhaust themselves. 
 
 Several days passed before Edith became com- 
 posed. Her nature was impulsive, and very keenly
 
 10 EDITH ; 
 
 alive to every thing in which feeling had a share ; 
 her joys or her sorrows were usually in extremes ; 
 and Mrs. Courtenay had often gently but firmly 
 warned her against this excess of sensibility, fore- 
 seeing how much it would involve her happiness in 
 after-life. Dwelling, as she necessarily would, upon 
 the uncertainties of a soldier's existence, exposed 
 to danger in every form, she often shuddered as she 
 heard Edith's plans for enjoyment "when papa 
 returns covered with laurels." She never dreamed, 
 poor child ! of the possibility of defeat ; she thought 
 not of the " laurels " the Americans might gather, or 
 the many brows which might be decked with what 
 she ignorantly believed were exclusively the property 
 of Englishmen. 
 
 She had always considered her father a hero, one 
 born to command. The idea that he could be con- 
 quered by a foreign foe ; that he could die in a strange 
 land, perhaps without the comforts his situation 
 required, was too dreadful for her mind to dwell 
 upon. 
 
 The officer who had written Mr. Courtenay, to 
 inform him of Capt. Dacres's death, addressed a 
 letter to Edith in a few days after his arrival, in 
 which he feelingly spoke of her father, as a very 
 dear friend, and gave an account of the closing scene 
 of his life : 
 
 " Permit me, my dear young friend, to offer you, on this 
 sorrowful occasion, the sincere sympathy of a heart which loved 
 your father as a brother. After he received the wound, which
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 11 
 
 soon proved fatal, he often spoke of you, and requested me to 
 write you immediately upon my return to England. His words 
 were, ' It is but four short months since I was in possession of 
 perfect health, and happy in having a darling child, whose expand- 
 ing mind and ripening virtues would, I hoped, in time, afford me 
 cause for rejoicing in her resemblance to her sainted mother. 
 What am I now ? Wounded, defeated, saddened, and about to 
 leave my poor Edith without natural protectors. Though I know 
 the Courtenays will do for her all that kind feeling and affection 
 could suggest, who can be like her father P Let her have this one 
 consolation, that my remains be carried in your ship to England. 
 My dream of happiness has been brief; but I am resigned to the 
 will of Heaven.' When all his brother-officers were oppressed 
 by grief, he would say, ' Do not mourn for me : it is charity to 
 wish me released from the suffering I endure.' The day previous 
 to his death? he took me by the hand, saying, ' Merton, should you 
 see my dear little girl, tell her how much I loved her ; how con- 
 stantly she was in my mind, even to the last ; how cheered I have 
 often been by the hope of seeing her at the end of the war : but 
 it was not to be. We shall meet again, I feel we shall, in a 
 brighter world. God bless her ! ' 
 
 " My young friend, I know how heavy your loss must be, and 
 what abundant reason you have to mourn ; but I know, too, what 
 cause of gratitude you have in possessing such friends as Mr. and 
 Mrs. Courtenay. 
 
 " I hope to see you, when I shall be permitted to leave the 
 ' Boadicea ' for a brief visit in Milton. May I not hope ta find 
 you calm and submissive ? 
 
 " Most truly, your friend, 
 
 "GEORGE MERLON, R.N." 
 
 Soon after the letter, Lieut. Merton came for a 
 few days. He tried to sooth Edith, by every effort, 
 into something like resignation to her father's death ; 
 but there were days when she refused all consola-
 
 EDITH ; 
 
 tion, and even seemed to take pleasure in nourish- 
 ing her grief. Still, at times she appeared to make 
 great efforts at composure. She would often sit for 
 hours alone in her chamber, gazing on the miniature 
 of her lost parent, and trying to recall every endear- 
 ing expression he had used, every lesson of advice 
 he had bestowed, ere they parted. 
 
 The children of the family were affected by Edith's 
 sadness, as she had hitherto been always ready to aid 
 in their plays after the school-hours were passed. 
 They missed her share in their amusements, but, by 
 their mother's suggestion, refrained from urging her 
 to leave her room until she was perfectly willing ; 
 and it was both strange and pleasant to observe how 
 kindly attentive they were to her whenever in her 
 presence: they loved her as fondly as if she had 
 been in reality their sister. 
 
 Time passed slowly in Milton, while Edith con- 
 tinued to sorrow for her father ; but its effect upon 
 her spirits was what it is with all : it softened and 
 subdued her grief; and, ere many weeks, her natu- 
 rally cheerful temperament found pleasure in walking 
 with the children, and Jenny, their frequent attend- 
 ant. 
 
 The governess from London arrived, and proved, 
 what governesses usually are, faithful on most occa- 
 sions to duty, but at times too indulgent ; and when 
 Mr. and Mrs. Courtenay were away, which was some- 
 times the case, Edith's propensity for works of fiction 
 was most abundantly gratified, and her feelings power-
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 13 
 
 fully impressed by such works as the " Mysteries of 
 Udolpho," &c., the scenes of which were probably 
 all mysteries to her, except the horror of the heroine 
 on discovering the wax figure of a man, which she 
 supposed a human being who had been murdered in 
 the castle. 
 
 This novel, so powerfully delineated by Mrs. 
 Radcliffe, never lost its effect upon the sensitive 
 nature of Edith. She enjoyed the beautiful descrip- 
 tions of the Alps, the Italian sunsets, and grandeur 
 of the forests : above all, the devoted tenderness of 
 Emily to her invalid father impressed her with so 
 much regret that she was denied the privilege of 
 being with her parent in his last hours. There was 
 a romantic interest thrown around this work, which 
 probably gave coloring to her after-life. She was 
 extravagantly fond of reading; was willing, at any 
 time, to resign the amusements common at her age, 
 to steal into a corner with a book. A story always 
 interested her, no matter how improbable, how much 
 at variance with every-day events, were the circum- 
 stances detailed. She eagerly devoured it; and 
 never did one doubt of its reality come to destroy 
 the illusion it produced. 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay often regretted this fondness for 
 reading, as she could not always direct Edith's choice 
 of books. Her only hope was, the natural strength 
 of her intellect would struggle through the mist of 
 error by which she was surrounding herself. She 
 knew the stern realities of life would in time teach
 
 14 EDITH; 
 
 her all was not couleur de rose ; and she almost 
 dreaded to awaken her from her dreamy enjoyment 
 of poetry and fiction while in the early hours of her 
 existence. Had Edith been other than an adopted 
 daughter, her course would have been more decided.
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME, 15 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 " As the sweet flower which scents the morn, 
 
 But withers in the rising day, 
 Thus lovely seemed the infant's dawn, 
 Thus swiftly fled her life away. 
 
 Miss TAYLOR, the governess, remained but a few 
 months at Mr. Courtenay's ; for she disputed supre- 
 macy with Jenny, the autocrat of the nursery, and 
 continual scenes of warfare disturbed the hitherto 
 peaceful family. This, however, was not the sole 
 cause for Miss Taylor's removal. Jenny was unques- 
 tionably the favorite with the children : she had no 
 lessons to teach ; she made no efforts to have them 
 speak with grammatical accuracy; and they were 
 heartily glad when Miss Taylor left, and they were 
 for a time sent to a day-school. 
 
 To keep in favor with Jenny was a very important 
 consideration, as there were many ways in which she 
 could promote the children's happiness by indul- 
 gence, or their discomfort by her displeasure. 
 
 She had many valuable traits of character, a natu- 
 rally strong mind, and faithfulness to what she con- 
 sidered duty ; but, like many persons invested with
 
 16 EDITH; 
 
 power, she at times exercised it to its fullest extent. 
 She had the care of Mrs. Courtenay's children beyond 
 the limits usually allowed domestics. Perhaps Mrs. 
 Courtenay erred in permitting such an ascendency 
 over them ; but she saw and knew the eminent 
 qualities of head and heart Jenny possessed, and felt 
 they would guard her from taking advantage of her 
 position. 
 
 Jenny often walked with the little girls. She had 
 so much innate taste as to select the most picturesque 
 regions for their rambles, and would direct Edith's 
 attention to objects of interest, if only the trunk of an 
 aged tree, on which moss was collected, or the dark ivy 
 was twining. Her inclination frequently led her to 
 old churches, ruins, &c., of which there were many 
 in the neighborhood. But the favorite walk was to 
 Windmill Hill, about a mile from Milton, where the 
 children used to talk with the miller, watch the mill in 
 motion, and then run to gather cowslips, violets, and 
 primroses, to carry home to mamma, as the first offer- 
 ings of spring. How many times would Edith kneel 
 upon the grass, search for early violets, attracted by 
 their perfume to the spot w T here the flowers were 
 modestly concealed ! How exultingly she would lift 
 her head, shake back her dark curls, and hold up a 
 bunch of her treasures for Jenny to admire, as they 
 glittered with dew, and sparkled like diamonds in 
 the sunlight ! And then the joy of offering them to 
 her dear mamma, of receiving her sweet smile and a 
 fond kiss, it was all Edith needed to fill up the
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 17 
 
 measure of delight, even after thinking and saying, 
 " No, I never can be happy again ! " 
 
 At the foot of Windmill Hill stood a cottage, neatly- 
 thatched, and nearly covered in front with creeping 
 vines. A short distance from it were some noble 
 elms, rich in spring foliage. Here the little girls 
 often stopped to rest, and be refreshed by a draught 
 of milk. Ellen, the eldest daughter, would laugh- 
 ingly tell the old cottager that her papa "came 
 from America, where the people were all copper- 
 colored Indians, except a very few white men." The 
 poor woman would stare, and lift up her hands in 
 wonder that there could be such a race of men. 
 The mystery of how Mr. Courtenay came to be 
 white, or the Indians copper-color, she never solved. 
 It was hardly justifiable in Ellen thus to mislead the 
 good cottager ; but, as she said, " there was so much 
 fun in witnessing her astonishment and credulity, it 
 was irresistible." 
 
 In one of these excursions, when the youngest 
 child in the family was about three years and a half 
 old, Jenny went toward Milton Church, to admire 
 its ivy-clad walls ; its solemn yews, and memorials 
 of the dead ; its luxuriant growth of grass, and 
 abundance of daisies which bloomed in the church- 
 yard. Little Emma was frolicking before the party, 
 looking like a cherub in her loveliness, her flaxen 
 curls floating in the breeze, and the silvery tones of 
 her voice ringing in a merry laugh, when a bird 
 suddenly flitted before her, and, after a brief strug- 
 
 2*
 
 18 EDITH ; 
 
 gle, expired at her feet. With a countenance of 
 deeply solemn expression, Jenny exclaimed, " Death 
 is among us ! " Edith was struck by her tone and 
 manner, as calculated to affect the children, and said 
 to her, very impatiently, " Why, Jenny, how super- 
 stitious you are ! What would mamma say to your 
 talking so foolishly ? " 
 
 " Wait, Miss Edith," replied the excited Jenny, 
 " it may not be superstition, after all ; at any rate, 
 you need not have spoken so sharp : we believe in 
 such things, in Wales, as signs." 
 
 " I did not mean to be sharp," said Edith ; " but I 
 was sorry to hear you speak as you did before the 
 children. I know you do not actually believe in 
 omens, dear Jenny." 
 
 There was no reply to Edith's remark. 
 
 Jenny's words were prophetic. , 
 
 In one short week, the beautiful bright child, the 
 idol of the household, was dead, and, reverently be 
 it said, " stood an angel at the throne of her God." 
 
 Emma was taken suddenly ill on the following 
 Sunday morning. Jenny carried her into Mrs. 
 Courtenay's sleeping-room, saying the child com- 
 plained of pain in her head and back. The affrighted 
 mother saw, in the changed aspect of the little girl, 
 that Death had set his seal on her brow : her coun- 
 tenance was ghastly pale ; her eyelids closed ; she 
 seemed entirely unconscious of the efforts made to 
 rouse her. 
 
 Medical advice was immediately procured ; every
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 19 
 
 thing which the united skill of physicians could do 
 was tried; but in vain. By seven o'clock in the 
 evening, she had ceased to breathe. 
 
 This sudden event threw the household into the 
 deepest affliction, particularly the bereaved parents ; 
 for, being the youngest, Emma very naturally was 
 the pet and plaything. Her personal beauty made 
 her very attractive ; but her exceeding sweetness of 
 disposition intwined her round the hearts of all. 
 The blank made by her death was not to be filled. 
 
 " That form so fair, those eyes so bright, 
 
 Are laid in hallowed ground ; 
 And over them the church-bell chimes 
 A peaceful requiem sound."
 
 EDITH 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 " 'Tis ever thus, 'tis ever thus, with creatures heavenly fair, 
 Too finely framed to bide the brunt more earthly natures bear : 
 A little while they dwell with us, blest ministers of love ; 
 Then spread the wings we had not seen, and seek their homes above." 
 
 ON the Sunday of Emma's illness, as the physicians 
 feared her symptoms were of an aggravated case of 
 scarlet-fever, and Edith had never been exposed to 
 any infectious disease, the latter was sent out of town 
 to a little village called Northfleet. Her residence was 
 in the family of a Mrs. Baker, a widow, with two 
 daughters and a son, highly respectable, intelligent 
 people. The cottage was one of those picturesque 
 dwellings so common in England, so often described, 
 but always interesting ; its front covered with the 
 honeysuckle and eglantine ; the entrance gay with 
 the scarlet geranium and purple bergamot, which 
 grew at each side of the door, and diffused their fra- 
 grance through the house. 
 
 The owner of this pretty cottage had been a mil- 
 ler : his widow, with the aid of her son, still carried 
 on the mill ; and he, every morning, might be 
 seen 
 
 " To heave the powdered sacks, and grind the corn."
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 21 
 
 The two daughters assisted their mother in house- 
 hold duties : the younger kept also a little school. 
 Henrietta was a lovely girl, far superior to the station 
 she filled ; one of those meek and gentle beings, 
 whose very presence seemed to diffuse happiness 
 around her. She devoted herself to Edith during 
 her stay, ever finding means of soothing her anxiety 
 about home, and waiting upon her as assiduously 
 and affectionately as upon a younger sister. 
 
 Notwithstanding the efforts to keep Edith's mind 
 tranquil, it was cause for surprise and anxiety that 
 she received no information from Milton of the pro- 
 gress of Emma's illness. The subject was dwelt upon 
 as little as possible by the family ; and, feeling there 
 might be satisfactory reasons for their silence, she 
 waited patiently until some information should be 
 given. 
 
 One evening, as she knelt by her bedside, offer- 
 ing, in low tones, her petition to Heaven for the 
 child's restoration, Henrietta stole softly behind her, 
 and, gently placing her hand on the bowed head, 
 whispered, " It is well with the child." Edith raised 
 her eyes beseechingly to her : " Do you mean she is 
 
 recovering ? or " And her voice, choked by 
 
 her emotions, forbade further utterance. 
 
 "Dear Edith," said Henrietta, "you will soon 
 know all : our silence has been in accordance with 
 your mamma's .request, to save you pain. Jenny 
 will be here in a day or two ; and I beg you to be 
 tranquil until then."
 
 22 EDITH; 
 
 " I will try to be tranquil, because it is mamma's 
 wish ; but I think this suspense is very hard to be 
 borne. I would infinitely rather know the worst." 
 
 On the following Sunday, Jenny arrived, laden 
 with affectionate messages from Mr. and Mrs. Cour- 
 tenay ; but Emma was not named. 
 
 Jenny, as usual, wished to go to the churchyard 
 for a walk. Edith and Henrietta accompanied her. 
 She seated herself on a low monument, and, as the 
 day was warm, took off her bonnet, when the white 
 ribbon on her cap told the sad tale of Emma's death. 
 Edith burst into tears. A solemn silence pervaded 
 the spot, unbroken for some minutes, except by the 
 soft whispering of the breeze among the yews. 
 Jenny tried to check Edith's sorrow, by telling her 
 how well Mr. and Mrs. Courtenay bore their afflic- 
 tion, and how much exertion the children made to 
 suppress their grief for their parents' sake : but 
 Edith could not refrain from the indulgence of her 
 feelings for the loss of the sweet child she had loved 
 so fondly ; and she continued to weep, until Jenny 
 informed her Mr. Courtenay would come for her 
 the next day, as the physicians thought, whatever 
 might have been Emma's disease, no danger of con- 
 tagion now existed. 
 
 The next day, Mr. Courtenay arrived : his radiant 
 smile was gone ; a deep shade was on his brow ; 
 and, as he pressed Edith fondly in his arms, she felt 
 a tear on her cheek. The firm man, the strongly dis- 
 ciplined mind, were subdued ; and long and silently 
 they clung to each other in their mutual grief.
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 23 
 
 Mr. Courtenay's life had been a very prosperous 
 one, and this might be said to be his first real sor- 
 row. Language has no words to express his deep 
 feeling on the occasion. It was the first time death 
 had been brought home to him ; and to have it fall 
 upon a being he loved so fondly, had overcome him 
 so completely, that years seemed to have been added 
 to his life. But no murmur escaped his lips ; he 
 never spoke of his lost Emma ; and probably, from 
 the effort he made to control all outward semblance 
 of sorrow, the deeper was his internal suffering. 
 
 When Edith arrived at home, she was inexpressi- 
 bly shocked by the change in her adopted mother's 
 appearance : the anguish in her heart had spread 
 itself to her countenance. She received Edith very 
 affectionately, and, kissing her fondly, said, " You 
 will, I know, understand all I suffer. Ellen has 
 often wished you with us during the sad week after 
 Emma's death ; but I feared to expose you to any 
 thing like contagion. My other children, you know, 
 have had the scarlet-fever ; but for you, dearest 
 Edith, I feel a double responsibility." 
 
 " O mamma ! " said Edith, " I should have been 
 so glad to have been with you and dear Ellen at 
 such a time ! I know I could have done a little 
 towards comforting you. And then Ellen has had a 
 sad satisfaction I can never know : she saw Emma 
 before she was taken away ; had the privilege of kiss- 
 ing her pale cheek, of giving her a last look." 
 
 " It is better as it is," said Mrs. Courtenay ; " you
 
 EDITH; 
 
 now remember her in the full bloom of health and 
 loveliness. Though her illness was so brief, it 
 changed her very much : the lustre of her bright 
 eyes was gone ; the evidences of approaching death 
 were so strong as to make even me feel it painful to 
 look upon her." 
 
 "O dear, dear mamma, how you must have suf- 
 fered ! " And the affectionate Edith clasped her mo- 
 ther's neck, and kissed her pale cheek again and 
 again, in token of her sympathetic tenderness. 
 
 Ellen at this moment entered the room, and, turn- 
 ing to Mrs. Courtenay, said, " Mamma, I do not 
 believe any one of the family grieves more sincerely 
 for the loss of little Emma than Jenny. I found 
 her this morning, in her chamber, kneeling before 
 an open trunk, and taking from it a pair of little 
 morocco shoes and a frock, which I knew you had 
 given her: she kissed them most fervently, while 
 the tears fell fast over her treasures. When she saw 
 me, she made every effort to hide her feelings. I 
 begged her not to practise any restraint, "as / should 
 love her more for the love she bore my sweet sis- 
 ter." 
 
 " O Miss Ellen ! " she said, " I cannot realize 
 dear little Emma is gone. It seems to me now 
 that nothing on earth can interest me as she did : 
 my affection was all given to her." 
 
 " I believe she spoke only the truth," replied Mrs. 
 Courtenay, " or the truth as it appears to her ; for 
 her attachment to Emma was of very unusual depth ;
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 25 
 
 and if any thing could add to the confidence I already 
 feel in this devoted girl, it would be her affection 
 for my lost one, her consideration for my feelings, 
 as she always checks any outbreak in my pre- 
 sence." 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay's strong mind urged her onward 
 in the course of duty towards her other children, 
 though the loss of Emma fell heavily on her heart. 
 She made redoubled efforts to promote their happi- 
 ness, and- to sustain her husband's drooping spirits. 
 Her thoughts would often wander back to her de- 
 parted child, would bring vividly before her the 
 scene of her sudden death, but always in meek sub- 
 mission to " Him who doeth all things well."
 
 26 EDITH 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 " And some there are who hail the rising morn, 
 
 Pluck its gay flowers, and taste its opening bloom, 
 Who, ere a cloud obscures the infant dawn, 
 
 Unsullied, sleep within the peaceful tomb. 
 But happier thou, though called in early youth, 
 
 Not unmatured, by sickness gently led, 
 To seek the bright, immortal path of truth, 
 
 And rest on Love Divine thy aching head." 
 
 AMONG the enj ay merits of Mrs. Courtenay's children 
 was visiting a lady who had been like a mother to 
 Mrs. Courtenay, and whom the children called grand- 
 mamma. 
 
 A little girl resided with her, whose mother, Mrs. 
 Harcourt's only daughter, had died, leaving her an 
 infant of a few days old, and whose father, so deeply 
 immersed in business as to be seldom with his 
 child, was, at the time of which we speak, in 
 Malta. 
 
 This little girl was naturally the idol of her be- 
 reaved grandparent, and an object of great interest to 
 the little Courtenays and Edith. She was exceed- 
 ingly lovely, possessing an innate dignity and grace 
 in every movement, which often led people to say 
 she was "born a duchess." Her manners were at
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 27 
 
 times very courteous ; but she could be somewhat 
 despotic, the result of her peculiar position. 
 
 Margaret Granville selected the younger children 
 to be more particularly her companions, as she called 
 Ellen " too old," and Edith " too grave." Caroline 
 Courtenay, a laughing, dark-eyed, roguish child, was 
 always full of mischief and fun ; while the disposi- 
 tion of Marion, who possessed more personal beauty, 
 was so quiet and docile, that, with her, one kind 
 word was sufficient to induce compliance with any 
 requisition. 
 
 Ellen, what can be said of Ellen, with her lus- 
 trous blue eyes and flaxen hair ? 
 
 " Never did Grecian chisel trace 
 A Nymph, a Naiad, or a Grace, 
 Of finer form or lovelier face." 
 
 She was all her fond parents could desire in a child, 
 kind, affectionate, gentle, well-disciplined, and 
 obedient to every wish. 
 
 Edward, the only son, was a fine-looking boy, 
 manly, brave, and generous ; but very quick-tem- 
 pered, impulsive, and but too easily influenced by 
 those around him. He had been kept very constantly 
 at school, a few miles from home, as the town of 
 Milton afforded no facilities for his education. 
 
 Edith seemed unlike any of these children in her 
 nature ; but, from living so long among them, she 
 had acquired many of their tastes, and assimilated 
 with them in all important affairs. She was, at 
 times, very independent, it might be said haughty.
 
 28 EDITH ; 
 
 She disliked all restraint, shrank from contradic- 
 tion or opposition. An order she never would have 
 obeyed ; but a request, mildly given, she delighted 
 to grant ; and, if at times betraying some degree of 
 waywardness, her orphan state came to the hearts of 
 all, pleading apologies for her. Her nature was so 
 generous, so open, there was so much versatility in 
 her character, she was loved wherever she was 
 known. Her disposition was so grateful, that not a 
 "ray of sunshine which beamed across her path, or 
 single blessing which gladdened her home," ever 
 failed to awaken thoughts of thankfulness for pos- 
 sessing (young as she was) a mind to appreciate all 
 the gifts Heaven had so indulgently bestowed. 
 
 Edith was not what is called beautiful ; for the charm 
 of her face consisted in its variety rather than in its 
 regularity of features. Her color rose or faded with 
 every emotion ; she could look proudly and sternly, 
 or wear a smile of ineffable sweetness ; her mouth 
 was indisputably beautiful ; and the pearly whiteness 
 of her teeth, when her lips parted, was dazzling. 
 Her complexion was perhaps not fair enough to 
 afford a contrast to dark eyes and hair ; but her form, 
 even in childhood, was regally imposing in its con- 
 tour. 
 
 Many bright and joyous days were spent at Mrs. 
 Harcourt's. The good old lady was ever anxious 
 to promote the happiness of the children ; and to her 
 they were indebted for many valuable lessons of love 
 to God, obedience to their parents, and kindness to
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 529 
 
 each other. Her far-searching mind seemed to have 
 an intuitive sense, that to cultivate these feelings 
 would be more than commonly important to some of 
 them in after-life ; that their young days were to be 
 clouded by adversity, and the energies of their cha- 
 racters very early quickened into operation. 
 
 To Edith she often said, " Cultivate your mind, 
 to afford never-failing resources in adversity ; lay up 
 a store of useful information, to avail you when the 
 world shall lose its attractions." This was not the 
 highest stimulus to improvement ; but it increased 
 her ambitious desire to attain some degree of supe- 
 riority over her young companions. 
 
 The cloud which had but recently darkened the 
 horizon of Mr. Courtenay's domestic happiness had 
 scarcely given place to the sunlight of tranquillity 
 when it gathered again, prostrating on a bed of ill- 
 ness the eldest daughter, Ellen. She had been again 
 at boarding-school for a few weeks, and returned to 
 spend a brief vacation, when she and Edith one 
 morning proposed going to a friend's house, a little 
 way out of town, to spend the day. 
 
 While walking in the garden, she complained of 
 slight pain in her head, which was supposed to be 
 occasioned by fatigue. Edith urged her to go into 
 the house, and rest on a sofa ; but the pain increased, 
 and it was considered best to send her home in the 
 carriage, with one of the young ladies of the family 
 in addition, to explain to Mrs. Courtenay the rea- 
 son of her sudden return, and to report how she 
 
 3*
 
 30 EDITH; 
 
 bore the ride. Her mother, alarmed by her flushed 
 cheek and the unnatural brilliancy of her eyes, sent 
 immediately for medical advice. The physician 
 expressed fears of typhoid-fever, yet hoped, by 
 timely aid, to check its progress. But she grew 
 rapidly worse : her mind often wandered alternately 
 to school and its studies, to flowers and rural enjoy- 
 ments : she sometimes spoke cheerfully of her reco- 
 very, and then sank into a stupor, not recognizing 
 either parent ; frequently called for Edith, then 
 seemed bewildered as to who she was. 
 
 Edith, although against the earnest entreaties of 
 Mrs. Courtenay, resolutely stood by the bedside of 
 her young friend, bathed her burning brow, kissed 
 her flushed cheek, and smoothed the fair ringlets 
 as they hung in disorder, while the patient turned 
 restlessly from pillow to pillow. 
 
 A consultation of physicians was called : they 
 pronounced her apparently beyond the reach of 
 human aid. When their opinion was made known 
 to Mrs. Courtenay, she seemed powerless in her 
 grief. Her identity was lost in the tide of sorrow 
 which was overwhelming her ; and for hours she 
 could not be persuaded to leave the bedside of the 
 suffering girl, holding a hand firmly grasped with- 
 in her own, gazing on the altered form which lay 
 almost motionless on the bed, and, in an agony of 
 prayer, beseeching Heaven to spare this cherished 
 object of her affection. Her faith seemed strength- 
 ened by every effort and aspiration, till she gradually
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 31 
 
 began to feel, that, whether granted or denied, the 
 petition would be answered only by Wisdom un- 
 erring. 
 
 Mr. Courtenay, entirely unable to attend to busi- 
 ness, remained at home, hovering about the sick 
 chamber, or shut up in the library with the two lit- 
 tle girls, who, by their caresses, tried to soothe his 
 affliction. 
 
 The last hour of life came. In a fortnight from 
 the day Ellen was attacked, she expired in her mo- 
 ther's arms, passed quietly away without a sigh. 
 
 Only one year, one short year, and the afflicted 
 parents stood on the same spot where they had con- 
 signed the mortal remains of little Emma. The 
 plants, the shrubs, in the churchyard, had bloomed 
 and died but once, and were just bursting again into 
 life, when the green sod was to be placed over 
 another grave, the grave of a lovely, blooming 
 girl, bright in intellect, endearing from the sweet- 
 ness of her disposition and gentleness of temper, and 
 who was in the full flush of health and enjoyment 
 only fourteen days previous to her death. " Pray 
 for me," said Mr. Courtenay to his wife, " pray for 
 me, Ellen, that I may bear this weight of woe as 
 becomes a Christian and a man. I have consigned 
 my child to her last home on earth : may God give 
 me strength to bear the trial ! " Mrs. Courtenay 
 clasped her husband's hand, and, resting her head 
 on his shoulder, said to him, in gentle and subdued 
 tones, " Comfort will come to us."
 
 32 EDITH; 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 " Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, 
 Seats of my youth, when every -charm could please ! 
 How often have I paused on every charm ! 
 The sheltered cot ; the cultivated farm ; 
 The never-failing brook ; the busy mill ; 
 The decent church, that topped the neighboring hill ; 
 The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade, 
 For talking age and whispering lovers made." GOLDSMITH. 
 
 THE startling effect of Ellen's death on the hearts of 
 her adopted parents Edith never realized, as, on the 
 day of the funeral, she was taken ill with the same 
 fever, and, for several weeks, was unconscious of 
 attention, or any thing that passed around her. 
 
 To all outward -appearance, she was more severely 
 ill than Ellen. Her brain, the seat of the disease, 
 was so much disordered, that Dr. Harris feared she 
 never could be sound in mind, even if her life were 
 spared. 
 
 Poor Mrs. Courtenay ! how bitterly did she lament 
 not having insisted upon her leaving home, not hav- 
 ing denied her the sad indulgence for which she had 
 so urgently pleaded, of ministering to Ellen ! 
 
 Every morning, Grandmamma Harcourt sent to 
 make inquiries for the poor invalid, almost hoping
 
 Oil, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 33 
 
 to hear all was over ; but daily came back the mes- 
 senger with tidings of " no change." 
 
 The physicians still said, " We fear she will never 
 have her intellect in full power ; " but it was not so 
 to-be. Reason began slowly to dawn on Edith's 
 benighted mind ; the objects around her began to 
 grow familiar. Her first clear perception of any 
 thing was Mrs. Courtenay's beautiful countenance, 
 as she bent over the bed, and Mr. Courtenay's face, 
 lighted up by hope. She tried to extend her hand, 
 it fell powerless on the bed ; but she murmured the 
 name of " Mamma ! dear mamma ! " What music 
 to her friends was in that word ! what joy in the 
 recognition ! They stooped to imprint a kiss on the 
 pale cheek, on which rested the dark lashes of her 
 closed eyes, and, for the first time, indulged hope 
 of her restoration. 
 
 Jenny came towards the bed, dear, kind Jenny, 
 and, as she smoothed the pillow, her tears fell 
 like raindrops on the invalid's face : she had been a 
 devoted nurse, and watched every turn of the fever 
 with the anxiety and tenderness of a mother. Slowly, 
 but visibly, Edith improved; and, ere the spring 
 had entirely passed, she was able to sit at a window, 
 gazing delightedly at the flowers in the garden, and 
 watching the busy scene on the Thames, as the ships 
 passed to and from London. The sound of the 
 reveille at the fort, the band in the evening, the 
 sunset gun, all came to her across the river with 
 the familiar tones of long-cherished association. Her
 
 34 E D 1 T H J 
 
 face was still pale and thin ; her luxuriant curls had 
 been taken off during her delirium ; but each return- 
 ing day seemed to restore her more and more to her 
 former self. 
 
 The children were so delighted at her amend- 
 ment, they were continually testifying their joy by 
 bringing her bouquets, &c. Margaret Granville 
 would often read to her, or tell long stories of her 
 father's travels in the Mediterranean, a^id exhibit his 
 gifts from the different islands. 
 
 When sufficiently recovered to be removed, she 
 went on a visit to some friends of Mrs. Courtenay 
 at Glendale Farm, the residence of Mr. Leslie. 
 She had known this family for some time, had often 
 passed days there, but had never made a visit of any 
 length. It proved a period of happiness she never 
 forgot. Its early days were saddened, it is true, by 
 the rememberance of Ellen ; but her own rescue from 
 death had been so almost miraculous that it softened 
 the distress she had otherwise felt. She cherished the 
 memory of her adopted sister ; deeply sympathized 
 with her heart-broken mother : but there was so 
 much vitality in her own nature, so intense ^. love 
 for the country, that very soon her joyous feelings 
 returned, and she bloomed again in health and bright- 
 ness. 
 
 The family at Glendale Farm consisted of Mr. 
 Leslie, two daughters, and one son. The last was 
 a pupil of Eton School ; the elder daughter, Mary, 
 was at the head of her father's house ; 'the younger,
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 35 
 
 about twelve years old, was at home for the holidays. 
 They all welcomed Edith on her arrival, as a very 
 precious charge, knowing how anxiously Mrs. Cour- 
 tenay had watched over her. They devoted them- 
 selves to her, exerting every effort to amuse her, and 
 divert her thoughts from her recent illness, and the 
 affliction of her friends at home. 
 
 The house was somewhat old in its style of archi- 
 tecture ; but its internal arrangement of furniture, 
 pictures, and all tasteful ornaments, would have 
 satisfied the most fastidious. It was situated in a 
 beautiful and fertile region, embracing extensive 
 views. There is a peculiar softness over the scenery 
 in Kent : it has been compared to " a beautiful face 
 seen through a gauze veil." The misty climate 
 causes vegetation to retain the rich green so late, and 
 assume it so early, it is quite delightful. The culti- 
 vation of the fields, nearly everywhere to be seen, 
 and, from the chamber appropriated to Edith, the 
 luxuriance of all around, filled her with delight. 
 The gardens, too, so tastefully arranged ; the distant 
 church, so venerable and ivy-clad, so picturesque in 
 its situation ; the woods for a background ; the vil- 
 lage footpath, with its stiles leading to the church ; 
 and, at a little distance, a ruin, the remnant of other 
 times, with its broken arch and gateway, all seemed 
 to combine to thrill her heart with rapture too 
 exquisite for words ; and when Mary Leslie would 
 look with her on this landscape, by the light of the 
 setting sun, she would clasp her round the neck, and
 
 36 EDITH; 
 
 only say, " Oh, what a paradise ! How spiritless 
 every other place must look to you ! " 
 
 " It is always a lovely region," said Mary ; " but 
 I have looked upon its beauties for many years, 
 Edith, and of course do not feel as enthusiastic as 
 you, to whom all wears the charm of novelty." 
 
 Near Mr. Leslie's residence were many pretty 
 cottages, thatched with straw, and often covered 
 with the eglantine, scarlet honeysuckle, and jas- 
 mine, several of them occupied by Mr. Leslie's 
 tenants. 
 
 Arthur volunteered to be Edith's escort in her 
 early walks. They often, after a long stroll, would 
 stop at one of these humble dwellings for a draught 
 of milk, and as often lend a willing ear to a tale of 
 sorrow from .the mother of a sick child, or of joy 
 from some happy old cottager, whose little garden 
 gave promise of abundance. 
 
 The noble boy, the heir of this estate, had a heart 
 which warmed in sympathy to all around him. His 
 manners were so endearing, " none knew him but to 
 love him." He was very anxious to do every thing 
 for Edith's comfort ; gathered flowers for her ; and, 
 in boyish gallantry, often tossed them on her beauti- 
 ful hair, the luxuriance of which had been rapidly 
 restored after her recovery. He would laughingly 
 say to her, 
 
 " You are not fair enough for a Flora, but would 
 make a famous Dryad, particularly as the Dryads 
 were sometimes only genii, never goddesses."
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 37 
 
 "Well," Edith would reply, "my imagination 
 would never transform you to Pan, though mamma 
 says it is very fertile, which she thinks makes me 
 so fond of studying mythology ; but, Arthur, I can 
 fancy you not Apollo or Narcissus, but I believe 
 you might be a Leander : you seem as if you had 
 energy enough to swim the Hellespont." 
 
 " It would depend," he replied, " upon who was 
 my Hero ; and whether the night were moonlight 
 and warm, or cold and stormy. I am afraid my cou- 
 rage would quail before a gale of wind and rough 
 sea ; so never natter yourself you will be ever any 
 thing but the Hero-ine my imagination." 
 
 " I hate puns," said Edith ; " I have not quickness 
 enough to apply them as promptly as they are spoken : 
 do not practise them on me ; please, Arthur, don't ! " 
 
 " Your request shall be obeyed," he hastily an- 
 swered. " I know exactly how you feel : you do not 
 wish I should hold your intellect in so little es- 
 teem." 
 
 " Do you think me conceited ? " she asked. 
 
 " No : I think you are just what I should like you 
 to be, were you my sister." 
 
 " Thank you, Arthur ; that is exactly what I should 
 like to have you say, what I should like to have you 
 feel. I have no real brothers and sisters ; but the 
 Courtenays are all very dear to me. Edward is so 
 much away, I know less of him than of his sisters, 
 who are lovely little girls. Could you only have 
 known Ellen, I am sure you would have loved her." 
 
 4
 
 38 EDITH; 
 
 " Was she like yon, Edith ? " 
 " Like me ! No, indeed : she was all gentleness 
 and sweetness, so calm and so beautiful. Why, papa 
 used to tell me, as he rubbed his hand over my dark 
 curls, I would make a famous Indian, and advised 
 me to learn to play bow-and-arrow. But, Arthur, we 
 have been walking a long time, and your sister 
 Mary will wonder where we are. Let us go home : 
 my drawing and lessons must not be neglected for 
 these happy walks ; nor must your Latin, as you are 
 soon to return to Eton. I shall miss you." 
 
 Days glided peacefully on, few shadows on 
 them, usually lighted by the sun of tranquil enjoy- 
 ment, in the affectionate attentions lavished upon our 
 heroine ; the tender consideration for occasional fret- 
 fulness the remote effect of her long illness. 
 
 Edith was no faultless character. She possessed 
 a quickness of temper, which would at times exhibit 
 itself in a sharp or haughty reply. On one occasion, 
 when Mary Leslie had ventured to advise her upon 
 the subject of novel-reading, to point out the injury it 
 might prove, as spoiling her taste for reading of a 
 higher order, history, &c., she received the advice 
 very coolly, and, rising from her seat with what she 
 considered great dignity, and tossing back her curls, 
 said, rather haughtily, "Would you confine me to 
 stupid history ? allow me to think of nothing but 
 old Greeks, Romans, and such characters ? I don't 
 fancy such dry reading ; I hate old times." With 
 this elegant remark on her lips, she passed up stairs
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 39 
 
 into the library, seated herself at an open window, 
 and cried with vexation at being advised to leave 
 Corinne just as she had reached the Capitol, la 
 charmante Corinne, her model of a woman. She 
 had sat some minutes, when a soft step near the door 
 caused her to turn, and Arthur stood before her, 
 with a chaplet in his hand. He approached her, as 
 if to place it on her hair. This moved the better 
 part of her nature to repentance. She possessed 
 integrity of character sufficient to feel her unworthi- 
 ness of such a gift at that moment ; and in bitter- 
 ness she exclaimed, " Oh, no, Arthur ! no, no ! " 
 and, passing hastily by him, rushed into the parlor, 
 where Mary was dejectedly seated at work. 
 
 " Forgive me, forgive me, Miss Leslie, I beg ! I 
 am so sorry I dared to speak to you as I did, you 
 who are so kind to me ! " 
 
 Mary readily granted the petition for forgiveness. 
 No outbreaks of temper were exhibited during the 
 remainder of her visit. 
 
 Edith learned many valuable lessons of self-govern- 
 ment from Mary. She became more patient under 
 what she often considered personal remarks, and had 
 a greater desire to be loved. She had been, at Mrs. 
 Courtenay's, so ceaseless an object of attention, that 
 she had not taken much pains to conciliate affection, 
 and usually claimed all she received as her due. 
 
 Arthur's example, too, now unconsciously affected 
 her. The calm dignity he possessed, for one so 
 young ; the perfect sweetness of his disposition ; his
 
 40 EDITH; 
 
 kind attentions to her ; his patient forbearance when- 
 ever she had been irritated ; his readiness to oblige, 
 even at the sacrifice of his own feelings, could not 
 fail to impress her sensitive nature ; and she insensi- 
 bly learned to consider him her guide in all their 
 plans for amusement, and her counsellor in all diffi- 
 culties in which she might be involved.
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 41 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 ''The hollow dash of waves, the ceaseless roar! 
 
 Be still, them sea-bird, with thy clanging cry ! 
 
 My spirit sickens as thy wing sweeps by. 
 
 The heavy -rolling surge, the rocking mast : 
 
 Hush! give my dream's deep music way, thou blast! 
 
 The white foam dashes high ! Away ! away ! 
 
 Shroud the green land no more, thou blinding spray ! " 
 
 EDITH was soon expected at Mr. Courtenay's ; yet she 
 lingered day after day, unwilling to leave scenes so 
 hallowed by tenderness, so picturesque in their love- 
 liness, even for home. The beautiful village of 
 Glendale one of those truly English villages, with 
 its church which " points its taper spire to heaven ; " 
 its thatched cottages and green lawns ; its old mill ;. 
 its banks covered with primroses, cowslips, and 
 " lords and ladies," which grew near brooks gurgling 
 through meadows had become so dear to her, that 
 she felt reluctant to give them up, even while she 
 knew her presence was needed in Mrs. Courtenay's 
 family, to supply, in some degree, the place of Ellen. 
 Her health, too, was perfectly established ; and what 
 excuse was there to prolong her stay ? She could 
 draw at home, even if Arthur were not there to cor- 
 
 4*
 
 42 EDITH; 
 
 rect her faults in perspective, Matilda to share her 
 studies, or Mary to stimulate her efforts by judicious 
 praise. 
 
 At the thought of her mother, left with only the 
 younger children during her husband's business- 
 visits in London, her heart smote her for being so 
 selfishly fond of Glendale, when hitherto Milton had 
 been all in all to her. 
 
 Her love of nature had been strengthened by fre- 
 quent walks and drives with Mary, a highly 
 cultivated and intelligent woman, who took pleasure 
 in directing Edith's attention to objects of interest, 
 and, by her well-chosen remarks, impressing them 
 indelibly on her memory. They often strolled, 
 towards sunset, to some secluded spot, where Mary 
 would repeat passages from Goldsmith's " Deserted 
 Village," and recognize, amid the many voices which 
 fell upon her ear from a distance, " the swain respon- 
 sive as the milkmaid sung-; " or, in the aged woman 
 by the brook, 
 
 " that widowed, solitary thing, 
 That feehly bends beneath the plashy spring, 
 The wretched matron, forced in age, for bread, 
 To strip th^brook with mantling cresses spread." 
 
 But the hour of parting came; the last words 
 were to be spoken. Poor Edith ! she wept on 
 Mary's neck, kissed Matilda again and again, and 
 blushingly bade farewell to Arthur as he &hook her 
 by the hand. He detained it for a moment ; and, 
 as she turned her large dark eyes to his face, she
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 43 
 
 saw his own glistening, as if tearful. Mr. Leslie 
 gave her a hearty embrace. " Don't forget us ! " was 
 echoed through the hall. The carriage drove off: 
 she was gone ! 
 
 We may be forgiven for saying we could dwell 
 upon this period of Edith's life a little longer : it 
 was a beautiful episode ; and who would not linger 
 over happy days of girlhood, particularly when passed 
 in England, with all its associations of picturesque 
 beauty, its cottages, flowers, and hawthorn hedges ? 
 But the reader (should we find one) may, after all, 
 weary of such endless descriptions. For the present, 
 then, we will leave them. 
 
 Edith's arrival in Milton was hailed by all with 
 great joy. Hardly could it be believed the bright, 
 animated being who sprang from the carriage, and 
 stood in the hall, was the pale, attenuated girl, who, 
 but a few weeks previous, had left it so wearily. 
 The air of Glendale, how it had improved her ! 
 Marion lifted one of her jetty ringlets, and exclaimed, 
 " See, mamma, how her hair has grown ! and what 
 a beautiful black it is ! " She was turned round by 
 all, Jenny not excepted, gazed upon, and kissed, as 
 if she had been gone a year. 
 
 A feeling of reproach throbbed at her heart as she 
 remembered her regret at leaving Glendale, regret 
 to be restored to beings who loved her so fondly. 
 Could she have been so ungrateful ? In the impulse 
 of remorseful feeling at her selfishness, she threw 
 herself into her mother's arms, and, with tearful
 
 44 EDITH; 
 
 eyes, said, " Dearest mamma ! how grateful I am for 
 this heartfelt welcome, when I have been such a 
 truant ! " Her mother drew her closer to her heart, 
 and said, " My dear girl, I have indeed missed you ; 
 but I knew you were -so happy at Glendale, I had 
 not the courage to ask you to return." 
 
 " Well," I mean to stay at home for a long 
 
 time " At that moment Caroline whispered, 
 
 "Edith, you and I are going to boarding-school 
 soon." A cloud was on her brow : she shuddered. 
 How was she to bear school-discipline after the 
 teaching of Mary and Arthur ? Her heart sank for 
 a time ; but, finding that what was called soon would 
 not be until the autumn, she determined to enjoy all 
 she could before the dreaded period should arrive. 
 
 Spring had yielded to summer ; and Mr. Cburte- 
 nay decided to pass the hot weather at Margate. 
 There was great delight with the children in helping 
 pack the trunks, and assisting in other preparations 
 for the visit to the seaside. When all was accom- 
 plished, and they stepped on board the yacht which 
 was to convey them to Margate, their joy knew no 
 bounds. Every thing was so new, so beautiful, the 
 arrangements for the trip so convenient ; and then 
 the cabin, the bustle on deck, the singing voices of 
 the sailors as they prepared for sea, the heaving of the 
 anchor, &c., had such charms, they all felt as if in 
 an enchanted palace, floating on the waves. But 
 some of the party, soon realizing they were at sea, 
 were glad to go below, and crawl into their berths,
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 45 
 
 and acknowledged, when they landed on Margate 
 pier, they were " glad the voyage was over." 
 
 A handsome and beautifully situated house, ready 
 furnished, had been engaged. The family were soon 
 settled, and all but Mrs. Courtenay bright and cheer- 
 ful. Her afflicted spirit sought consolation where 
 alone it is to be found ; and, as she moved quietly 
 and calmly in the performance of duty in her family, 
 strangers would have called her happy: but there 
 was an eye which penetrated the recesses of her 
 heart, and knew how deeply she sorrowed for her 
 children. She had, perhaps, loved Ellen with a more 
 devoted affection than she was aware. She had 
 always been very proud of this daughter, as a child 
 of uncommon promise. She had beheld her, a sweet, 
 bewitching little girl, engaging in the rudiments of 
 her education with all the ardor of youth and genius, 
 gay, innocent, void of care, looking forward to a 
 long life of health and happiness. She had seen her 
 full of youth and beauty, the delight of the family 
 circle ; had watched the insidious approaches of dis- 
 ease ; had seen her beauty fade away ; had sat by 
 her bedside through her brief but wasting illness ; 
 had witnessed her patience and calmness ; and had 
 received her last sigh on her bosom. Was it strange 
 that thought should sometimes be agony ? 
 
 The out-of-doors life of the young people was per- 
 fect in its enjoyment. Part of every day was given 
 to walking on the " Sands," where they would spend 
 an hour or two gathering marine plants, or collecting
 
 46 EDITH; 
 
 shells. They were always accompanied by Edith ; 
 and, whenever Mr. and Mrs. Courtenay were unable 
 to be with them, Jenny acted as attendant, to help 
 carry the baskets, and guard them from too near an 
 approach to the sea. The Sands were often thronged 
 by gay groups of bathers, or persons lounging in 
 morning strolls, before the fashionable hour arrived 
 for visiting the libraries, when they were deserted 
 by all but children and their attendants. 
 
 On one of those lovely mornings, when every 
 thing in nature seemed rejoicing in life and light, 
 the young Courtenays, Edith, * and Jenny, were 
 equipped for an excursion to the Sands, their baskets 
 on their arms for marine treasures, animation in 
 every movement, and glee in every heart, at the 
 anticipations of what would be brought home. 
 
 They arrived on the beach, found many shells, 
 lovely seaweeds, &c. They continued to wander on, 
 hardly looking up, so intent were they all upon the 
 search for what Edith called " gems of the ocean," 
 when a sudden darkness called Jenny's attention to 
 the sky, which had become overcast almost to black- 
 ness over the sea. These startling changes in the 
 weather are very common in England : they are often 
 so sudden as to give the traveller but little warning 
 to seek shelter. Large drops of rain soon fell, and 
 other indications of a storm succeeded. Jenny 
 turned abruptly towards the .ocean, saw these fearful 
 evidences of danger, and then, for the first time, 
 noticed that the projections of cliffs over which they
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 47 
 
 must pass were submerged. " The tide ! the tide ! " 
 she exclaimed in agony of terror; "the rocks are 
 under water ! What'will become of us if we do not 
 hurry on7 O Miss Edith ! do try to hasten the 
 children, I beg of you ! On ! on ! or we are lost ! " 
 Edith's agitation was extreme : she felt how careless 
 both herself and Jenny had been, thus to wander on, 
 regardless of time and distance. There seemed no 
 help at hand. Seizing little Marion's wrist, she 
 dragged her onwards as rapidly as her trembling 
 limbs would allow. But the wind had risen to a 
 gale ; the spray almost blinded her ; and she often 
 bowed beneath the force of the storm. Still ^he 
 grasped the child firmly, and tried to soothe her 
 alarm by cheering words. There was so much at 
 stake ; the lives of the children, her own life, de- 
 pended upon extraordinary effort ; and she screamed 
 aloud, "" Help ! help ! For God's sake, help ! " 
 
 The dark mass of waters came rushing in, dashing 
 in wild fury against, and even over, their land- 
 marks. Still her words spoke hopefully; still she 
 urged her way, her feet wet with the waves, which 
 every minute broke over them, and at intervals 
 seemed ready to sweep the wretched little group out 
 into the sea. Jenny shrieked for help ; but both 
 the voices were apparently lost in the lashing of the 
 surge, the roaring of the wind. 
 
 The wild tumult for one moment was lulled, when, 
 exerting themselves to their utmost strength, Jenny 
 and Edith screamed again, " Help ! children ! help ! "
 
 48 EDITH; 
 
 Suddenly a loud voice was heard, which shouted, 
 " Holloa ! holloa ! " and gazing from the cliff were 
 two stout fellows, who, as the desolate children 
 turned their eyes upwards, said, " Be of good cheer ; 
 we can help you up the cliffs; keep still; never 
 fear ; the worst is over." 
 
 They came rapidly down the sides, and, snatching 
 the younger ones, soon landed them safely; then 
 returned for Jenny and Edith, who stood shivering, 
 covered with spray, and with so slippery a foothold 
 as to be in danger of falling' on the sands, or being 
 swept off by the tide. The cliffs were fortunately 
 neither very high nor very steep, and, although 
 apparently inaccessible to young people, were easily 
 scaled by stout men. 
 
 They placed the party in safety, above the roaring 
 tide ; and poor Jenny, as she surveyed the forlorn 
 group, dripping with wet, burst into an agony of 
 tears. Edith's black hair, drenched with salt water, 
 hung in heavy masses over her shoulders, while her 
 large dark eyes seemed distended by horror at what 
 she had suffered both mentally and physically. 
 
 One of the men, after surveying the party very 
 benevolently, and as if in pity of their condition, 
 said to Jenny, " Young woman, don't stand crying 
 there, but think of these children in wet clothes. 
 Where do they belong ? Wipe your eyes, and tell 
 us where you live, and we'll get a conveyance to 
 take you there." 
 
 At that moment, a carriage was seen driving furi-
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 49 
 
 ously towards the scene of trouble. Mr. Courtenay 
 leaped from it, apparently in great consternation. 
 He looked at the children almost in dismay, as he 
 saw their drenched garments and pale faces ; but, 
 knowing the anxiety their mother was suffering, he 
 allowed himself no time for the indulgence of feel- 
 ing, but, hurrying them, with Jenny, into the car- 
 riage, bade the coachman hasten home with all 
 rapidity. He had seen the storm approaching, and, 
 finding the children had not returned, became ex- 
 cessively alarmed ; ordered the carriage to hasten to 
 the cliffs, in an agony of terror at what might await 
 him on his arrival. When he found them all safe, 
 the revulsion of feeling was so great as to require 
 the utmost self-command j but it was not until they 
 were driving homewards he exhibited any emotion. 
 Caroline and Marion began eagerly to relate the 
 adventure, begging Jenny might not be blamed. 
 
 " No one shall be blamed, my dears," said Mr. 
 Courtenay ; " we will only be thankful to God for 
 preserving you from the overwhelming tide. Never 
 again run such a risk. You have miraculously es- 
 caped being drowned." 
 
 The men, it appeared, had been at work in the 
 grounds above the cliffs, and were just leaving, to 
 wait until the storm passed over, when they thought 
 they heard a cry of distress. They had noticed the lit- 
 tle party some time before, but concluded they had left 
 the Sands. As the wind lulled, they listened, and, feel- 
 ing certain it was some one in danger, came to their 
 
 6
 
 50 EDITH; 
 
 assistance. They were liberally rewarded for their 
 adventurous aid, and the affair produced no disas- 
 trous results. It was a long time ere any walks to 
 the Sands were allowed, and then only when Mr. 
 Courtenay could go. 
 
 Edith's imagination, very vivid even in girlhood, 
 always treasured the memory of this scene with 
 peculiar tenacity. She very frequently reverted to 
 it. The roaring tide, the suddenly darkened sky, 
 the screams of the sea-gull, the rushing wind, were 
 clearly in her mind years afterwards ; and often, as 
 she stood, in other lands, on a bold rocky coast, did 
 she call up that fearful hour, when, in childish help- 
 lessness, she struggled on the stormy beach of Mar- 
 gate, with her adopted sisters, depending on God 
 alone to guide some protecting hand by which 
 they might be rescued from their perilous situa- 
 tion.* 
 
 In a week or two, Edward Courtenay joined his 
 family for a brief vacation. He was about fifteen 
 months older than Edith, who was very strongly at- 
 tached to him. Never was a happier vacation : the 
 young people were so desirous to make time pass 
 pleasantly, they accompanied him in his walks ; 
 often going some distance to a rural spot, where 
 they dined in a grove of magnificent elms, danced 
 
 * The description of this scene on Margate Sands may bear some resemblance 
 to the storm in the " Antiquary." It occurred before the " Antiquary" was written. 
 The incidents are strictly true, though but imperfectly sketched. The party very 
 narrowly escaped a frightful death, the author being one of the number.
 
 OK, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 51 
 
 on the green, and, decking themselves with flowers, 
 laughed away the happy hours until time to return, 
 which poor Jenny would unceasingly tell them must 
 be an hour earlier than they wished : but she watched 
 the clouds, and, if one appeared " no larger than a 
 man's hand," she predicted a shower. 
 
 Sometimes Mr. Courtenay and their mother went 
 off in a boat with them along the coast, guided by 
 a skilful sailor as pilot. This was particularly de- 
 lightful to Edward, who had always expressed a 
 fondness for the sea. A row along the coast, how 
 exciting it was ! and how the silvery laugh would 
 echo among the cliffs, as the children dashed the 
 water in Edward's face, to give him, as they said, a 
 taste of the sea. 
 
 A trip to Dover, to visit the Castle, finished the 
 pleasure excursions ; for the summer was gone. All 
 returned to Milton in the yacht which conveyed 
 them to Margate ; but the charm of the wide sea 
 was over.. The memory of the scene on the Sands 
 was too fresh, the escape from the stormy waves too 
 sadly impressed, not to cast a gloom over the party 
 as the little vessel bounded homewards under a stiff 
 breeze. 
 
 Mrs. Harcourt and Margaret were well ; but the 
 latter was a striking contrast, in her delicacy of ap- 
 pearance, to the sun-burnt, rosy-cheeked Courtenays, 
 who all looked as if health and bloom had been 
 inhaled in every breeze at Margate. They were 
 delighted to meet each other ; and many were the
 
 52 EDITH; 
 
 hours passed in relating the adventures of the last 
 three months, until Margaret's imagination was also 
 filled with the beauty and grandeur of the scenery. 
 The shells and seaweeds were shared with her. 

 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 53 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 " The leaving of the university may fade from the recollection ; its classic lore 
 may moulder in the halls of memory : but the simple lessons of home, enamelled 
 upon the heart of childhood, defy the rust of years, and outlive the more mature, 
 but less vivid, pictures of after-days. Deep and lasting indeed are the impressions 
 of early life." 
 
 Now came the time for selecting the boarding-school : 
 so much dreaded was it, that the family seemed to 
 lose their spirits in the prospect of parting with 
 Edith and Caroline. But it must be done, as the 
 town of Milton afforded not the advantages of edu- 
 cation so appreciated in England by those whose 
 situation commanded means for having their children 
 thoroughly instructed. It was decided they should 
 go to Mrs. Lanmeer's, in Rochester, which to other 
 recommendations had that of being near Edward, 
 whose school was in that city. 
 
 Good Mrs. Harcourt, who could not bear this 
 sending children from home, really grieved at the 
 prospect of separation. She rather injudiciously 
 pitied the two girls, until they magnified school re- 
 straint almost into prison discipline. And Margaret 
 Granville added her share to their discomfort by 
 saying, " I am glad it is not I : but my grandmam- 
 
 5*
 
 54 EDITH; 
 
 ma would never consent to sending me from home." 
 The fire flashed from Edith's eyes as she haughtily- 
 said, 
 
 " Cast no reflections on our mamma. Do you 
 imagine either she or Mr. Courtenay would send us 
 away but for our good ? How are we to be properly 
 educated in this small town ? You will have to go 
 away some day." 
 
 Edith felt Margaret's remark to the quick. She 
 feared the slightest imputation on her mother's 
 kindness, and knew full well how she suffered at 
 the thought even of parting. But, in a moment, 
 her better nature prevailed : she remembered Mar- 
 garet was motherless as herself in reality, though 
 equally blessed in friends ; and, turning suddenly to 
 her, she said, 
 
 " Do forgive me, dear Margaret ! Do not think of 
 my rude manner ; for I would not offend one so 
 much younger than myself, any more than one of 
 my own age." 
 
 Margaret readily extended her hand, and, as the 
 tears filled her eyes, said, 
 
 " Oh ! I am not offended ; but I was sorry to have 
 you speak as you did, because you are so soon going 
 away." 
 
 It was a lesson to Edith not soon forgotten. The 
 words " going away " sounded in her ears long after' 
 the air had ceased to echo them ; and she would 
 afterwards say, mentally, "Are we not all going 
 away from life, its pleasures, its praises, its pains, its
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 55 
 
 heart-burnings ? "Why imbitter the short period 
 allotted us by any utterances we may regret when 
 summoned where every idle word is to be accounted 
 for ? " 
 
 During the preparations for her departure, Edith 
 passed two days at Glendale Farm. 
 
 Arthur had gone to Eton, and every thing seemed 
 so changed. Matilda, too, had returned to school. 
 Edith tried to laugh, as Mary Leslie rallied her on 
 her serious face, when she found Arthur was not at 
 home, telling her how much they had missed her 
 after her spring visit; that her brother used to be 
 very sentimental ; would repeatedly say, " What a 
 change since Edith left us ! How I miss her light 
 step tripping over the piazza, her wild birdlike sing- 
 ing as she stooped for flowers, and, above all, her 
 saucy rebukes to me for not admiring Lord Oswald 
 or Corinna ! " 
 
 Edith could not forbear a smile at what Mary 
 called Arthur's sentimentality ; but she treasured it 
 up, for she wanted to be associated in his mind with 
 things so pleasant as flowers, birdlike singing, &c. She 
 did not say how much she missed him ; but she strolled 
 into the walks and lanes they had trodden together, 
 and loitered over a rose-bush, which had a single 
 flower, the last of the season (for the gardens now 
 were stripped of all summer beauties). She plucked 
 the solitary rose, meaning to preserve it ; but her 
 romance fled before the melancholy fact that it fell 
 to pieces, and the petals were scattered by the breeze.
 
 56 EDITH; 
 
 " Jenny would call this an omen," thought Edith ; 
 " but I do not. I merely think the rose had lived 
 as long on the bush as it could ; and when 
 
 ' I Bnapped it too rudely, alas ! ' 
 Why, ' it fell to the ground.' " 
 
 The afternoon previous to leaving Glendale, she 
 went with Mary to all their familiar haunts ; stopped 
 before the " hawthorn-bush beneath the shade," its 
 flowers long since departed ; shook down the ripe 
 chestnuts and the filberts; walked round the gar- 
 den, called on the shepherd, and ascended the little 
 hill, from which they could see the sun go down in 
 almost cloudless beauty. Both were silent, until 
 Edith said, dejectedly, " O Miss Leslie ! that hate- 
 ful boarding-school ! How I dread it ! and how often 
 I shall come back in imagination to this place ! 
 What can make up to me its loss, and a separation 
 for months from all I love but Caroline ? and she 
 is too young to enter into my feelings." 
 
 Mary cheered her by saying she would " write 
 and tell her how all things went on; the price of 
 hay, wheat, and barley ; every thing concerning the 
 spring broods, &c., the most interesting of details." 
 
 " Will you tell me of Matilda ? " 
 
 " Yes ; and, what you would prefer, I will tell 
 you of Arthur, his progress at Eton." 
 
 " Don't you think Arthur very good, as well as 
 very handsome ? " said Edith, ingenuously. 
 
 " Yes," said Mary ; " he is a noble-minded, ex-
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. , 57 
 
 cellent fellow. There is no subject on which I so 
 love to dwell as my brother. For one so young, 
 he has remarkable characteristics : so strong a love 
 of truth ; such independence ; dauntless and well- 
 directed, too, never displayed haughtily, or, indeed, 
 in any improper way, but the rule of his general 
 conduct. He dares at eighteen to act and speak the 
 truth like a man of twenty-five. I have heard papa 
 say he never caused him an anxious hour. I believe, 
 Edith, his excellence in conduct is wholly owing to 
 a deep religious sense. He makes no parade of his 
 feelings ; still they are very earnest, I know. But 
 the sun has gone down, and we are still far from 
 home : it is becoming very damp. We must hurry 
 on, and leave Arthur's panegyric until a future 
 day." 
 
 Edith placed her arm within her friend's, merely 
 saying, " I wish we were not obliged to go home 
 yet. Why could not the sun have waited for us ? " 
 
 The next day, Edith returned to Milton. The 
 weather had changed ; the clouded sky appeared as 
 sad as her own feelings at parting with Mr. Leslie and 
 Mary. As she stepped into the carriage which was 
 to convey her home, some large raindrops fell. 
 Mary smiled as she said, " The heavens weep your 
 departure as I probably shall." The adieus were 
 made, and once more Edith was travelling home- 
 wards.
 
 58 EDITH 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 ' Now in thy youth beseech of Him, 
 
 Who giveth, upbraiding not, 
 That his light in thy heart become not dun, 
 
 And his love be unforgot ; 
 And thy God, in the darkest of days, will be 
 Greenness and beauty and strength to thee." 
 
 THERE was something exciting in the preparations 
 for the children's departure. Caroline and Edith 
 called on their mother's friends to say good-by ; were 
 loaded with presents as tokens of regard, and the 
 kindest wishes, with promises exacted to visit all in 
 the Christmas holidays. The dread of the school 
 seemed to diminish ; and they both began to hope 
 the tales they had heard of tyranny, &c., might have 
 been exaggerated. At length the day arrived. 
 Grandmamma Harcourt was the last to be visited. 
 She and Margaret were much grieved at losing their 
 young friends ; but were tolerably cheerful, at least 
 externally. 
 
 The carriage drove to the door ; the trunks were 
 lashed on ; the servants stood with their aprons at 
 their eyes. Jenny sobbed aloud. Marion cried with 
 the rest, as in duty bound. Mr. and Mrs. Courtenay
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 59 
 
 seated themselves, the children followingj and strain- 
 ing their eyes from the carriage windows" for one 
 more look. The door was closed ; " smack went the 
 whip, round went the wheels ; " and soon the turn in 
 the street hid them from sight. The distance was 
 but eighteen miles ; and, in what appeared a very 
 short time, the old Cathedral of Rochester was seen. 
 In a few minutes more, the carriage stopped before 
 the massive entrance of " Elms-gate House," and all 
 were soon in the presence of Mrs. Lanmeer. She 
 received the party very graciously, was dignified, 
 ladylike, and affable. 
 
 Edith's countenance became pale ; her heart beat 
 violently ; her feelings were indescribable. 
 
 After all the directions were given, the studies 
 named, charges most earnestly reiterated concerning 
 the health of the two pupils, Mr. and Mrs. Courte- 
 nay rose to depart. Caroline clung to her father, 
 imploring him not to leave her. He turned to the 
 window to conceal his emotions, the child still hang- 
 ing on his arm. He pressed his head against the 
 panes of glass ; and, as Edith approached him, the 
 big tears fell on his cheeks. She spoke to him : 
 " Dear Mr. Courtenay ! papa ! " Her lips had 
 never before thus named him. The effort was a 
 desperate one ; but the sight of his tears brought to 
 her the thought of what her father would have suf- 
 fered thus to part with her. From the fountain of her 
 deep love welled up a gush of tenderness she tried 
 not to check; and, as he stooped to kiss her, she
 
 60 EDITH; 
 
 clasped his neck, and said, " I will be kind to Caro- 
 line at all times. You are my own dear papa ; trust 
 her to me." " Willingly, my dearest Edith," was 
 the reply. " I have perfect confidence that you will 
 be a watchful guardian over my child's happiness. I 
 do not believe I could leave her, were you not with 
 her." Mr. Courtenay pressed both the children in 
 his arms, and left the room. Mrs. Courtenay stood 
 in agonized struggles for composure. She clasped 
 the girls again and again in her embrace, gave the 
 fervent " Good-by ! God bless you both ! " and was 
 gone. 
 
 When the door closed, and the retreating wheels 
 died in the distance, Edith wrung her hands in de- 
 spair. Caroline threw herself on a sofa, and gave 
 vent to her sorrow in a passionate burst of grief. 
 Edith echoed every sob, until, fearing the child would 
 be ill, she exerted herself to the utmost to comfort 
 her. Mrs. Lanmeer sent for Edward, whose school 
 was near ; and as he had seen his parents after they 
 left East Gate, and brought messages of endearment, 
 they became more calm towards the afternoon. They 
 did not go into the schoolroom that evening until 
 prayer-time, when Mrs. Lanmeer ushered them among 
 nearly one hundred pupils ; mentioned their names ; 
 requested some of the young ladies to be kind to 
 them ; and, when prayers were over, they retired for 
 the night. 
 
 The chamber contained several beds, with pretty 
 white curtains, .every thing so neat, and in accord-
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 61 
 
 ance with perfect order. The girls knelt, as was 
 the home-custom, at the side of their bed, and of- 
 fered up their humble petition at the throne of grace ; 
 but poor Caroline, when she came to the words 
 " God bless dear papa and mamma ! " burst into a 
 fresh torrent of tears. Edith, who understood the 
 cause of the renewed grief, hushed her to sleep in 
 her arms. 
 
 The two young ladies who occupied the adjoining 
 bed were disposed to be what, in an English board- 
 ing-school, are often called " quizzers." One of 
 them commenced her refined mode of attack by ask- 
 ing Edith, " What is your papa's business, or pro- 
 fession, Miss Dacres ? " 
 
 " Papa was an officer in the army. He died of 
 wounds in Canada during the late war in America. 
 Caroline Courtenay's parent is an American mer- 
 chant," and her high spirit kindled as she conti- 
 nued, "called, in his country, princes." 
 
 " Oh ! " said Miss Gunning, I presume you will 
 despise me, then ; for my father is a mechanic." 
 (This was a falsehood.) 
 
 " Not at all," Edith said, in a very independent 
 manner ; " I have been taught not to regard the 
 occupation, but the man. I don't believe, when you 
 know more of me, you will think me so unjust." 
 
 " You are a brave girl, at any rate," replied the 
 other ; " and I will never try to tease you again." 
 And, springing from her bed, kissed the sad stranger, 
 and good-naturedly bade her good night." 
 
 6
 
 62 EDITH; 
 
 Though Edith was not fourteen, she was armed 
 with principles so firmly fixed as to repel all attacks. 
 Her heart beat warmly beneath the aegis ; but it 
 beat steadily and unflinchingly at the call of duty. 
 She had very little sleep that night, and arose in 
 the morning forlorn and dejected : no bright smile 
 cheered her, no fond salutation greeted her. 
 
 After breakfast, the pupils had an hour for recrea- 
 tion in the playground, where all manner of sports 
 were practised, ball, skipping the rope, battledoor, 
 &c. The scholars seemed perfectly free, and enjoy- 
 ment was the order of the hour. The two strangers 
 looked on for some time, no one seeming to care 
 that they were strangers, when a lovely looking girl, 
 with blue eyes and flaxen hair, advanced, and asked 
 them to join in the sports. Taking a hand of each, 
 she led them to a group who were playing " drop 
 the handkerchief." From that sort of sympathy 
 which so strongly connects the young, they soon 
 became quite interested, and played cheerfully until 
 the bell was rung for the school to commence. 
 
 Edith and Caroline were placed under the particu- 
 lar care of one of the teachers, a Miss Weldon, 
 who was to have the supervision of their studies and 
 their wardrobe. 
 
 Elms-gate House was a large stone building, which 
 had once been a convent ; and, connected with it, 
 many a sad tradition even at that time existed, 
 of punishments inflicted on the nuns, their being 
 immured in a dungeon, &c. The truth of these tales
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 63 
 
 the older scholars doubted : they probably originated 
 in the brain of former occupants. At any rate, Edith 
 thought it a bright, cheerful building, fronting a 
 beautiful garden, the fafade covered with luxuriant 
 growth of ivy, eglantine, and honeysuckle, which, 
 when the casements were opened, burst into the 
 schoolroom, and spread their branches over the re- 
 cesses of the bay windows. The first were passing 
 away, as it was early autumn; but the honeysuckle 
 still bloomed, and the eglantine leaves emitted their 
 delicious odor. 
 
 The garden was yet gay with the marigold, chry- 
 santhemum, wallflower, and laurustinus, many of 
 them in perfection, as the moisture of the climate 
 tends to preserve flowers until very late in the autumn. 
 
 The ivy trained its dark -green foliage on the walls, 
 which, even when winter approached, wore an air 
 of springlike beauty. 
 
 The interior of the house might be called very 
 pleasant ; for the bi'ight faces of many of the scholars 
 diffused an air of cheerfulness over all things. 
 
 To Edith, there was as yet but little cause for hap- 
 piness. She acknowledged the importance of being at 
 school ; but she pined for the society of Mr. Courte- 
 nay and her mother, the domestic comforts of her 
 home ; and, under that saddest of all feelings, home- 
 sickness, she became so dejected, and looked so pale, 
 that Mrs. Lanmeer told her she must send word to 
 her friends how unhappy she was, and request them 
 to send for het. This, she knew, would never an-
 
 64 EDITH; 
 
 swer : it would disappoint them sadly. And, rousing 
 herself to action, she pursued her studies with great 
 energy, was diligent at her drawing and music ; and, 
 fired by the laudable ambition of showing at Christ- 
 mas how much she had improved, she found the best 
 remedy for home-sickness was constant employment, 
 sought companionship with pupils older than herself, 
 and in a few weeks was contented. The young lady, 
 Eliza Sedley, who had so kindly noticed her the 
 morning after her arrival, became her warm friend, 
 her guide and counsellor ; and the bond of affection 
 thus formed was but more closely cemented by 
 time. 
 
 Little Caroline was happy as a lark ; the gayety of 
 her disposition made her a general favorite; and, 
 either as pet or playfellow, she was sought by all the 
 younger pupils.
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 65 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 " The better days of life were ours; 
 
 The worst can be but mine : 
 The pun that cheers, the storm that lowers, 
 
 Shall never more be thine. 
 The silence of that dreamless sleep, 
 I envy now too much to weep ; 
 
 Nor need I to repine 
 That all those charms have passed away 
 I might have watched through long decay." BYRON. 
 
 ONE morning after school, as Edith was looking for 
 something at the bottom of her trunk, she discovered 
 a pocket-book, which she did not remember ever to 
 have seen before. She opened it, and found a note 
 from Mrs. Courtenay, saying it contained some let- 
 ters which she knew Edith would value, as written 
 by her father soon after the death of her mother. 
 These letters she had saved until she thought her 
 old enough to value their depth of feeling, their pro- 
 found religious ,sense. Edith was alone, and, on 
 opening the first letter, was indeed affected by its 
 mournful style : 
 
 " MY DEAR COURTENAT, There is such a luxury in talking or 
 writing to one who I know feels for me as you do, that I hasten to 
 reply to your letter of the 27th, received yesterday. 
 
 6*
 
 66 EDITH; 
 
 " None but those who have loved like me, and who have had 
 their happiness blighted by the breath of misfortune, can know 
 how mournfully sweet it is to talk of, and weep for, the object of 
 our departed joys. There is a luxury in it far above the compre- 
 hension of ordinary minds, too refined for any but dear friends to 
 share. What is the world, with all its enticements, to me ? She 
 who gave to life all its charms lives herself no longer on the earth ! 
 She who was my friend, my counsellor, the partner of my joys and 
 sorrows, she who pointed the way to happiness, and cheered me 
 on my road of life, now sleeps the sleep of death ! 
 
 " Can it be wrong for me to mourn for her ? Can I be blamed 
 for shedding the tear of bitter regret, when I think of my poor 
 motherless child, left so early without that tender guardian who 
 would so joyfully have watched and directed her expanding 
 mind? 
 
 " I may perhaps be charged, by the cold and heartless, with 
 carrying my regrets to a culpable excess ; but I am sure you, at 
 least, will not blame me. You knew my wife, and can estimate the 
 weight of my loss ; and did not the Saviour weep at the grave of 
 his friend Lazarus ? Ought I to be blamed for doing that which 
 was done by one who furnished the highest example the universe 
 ever beheld of faith, patience, and reignation to the divine will ? 
 Pity me, then, my friend, but do not condemn me. I shall, in 
 time, be able to bear up in a more manly way. My child, my 
 friends, have claims on me which ought not to be disregarded. 
 Faith, too, encourages me with the hope I shall one day rejoin my 
 beloved wife in the mansions of the blessed, and that she is only 
 gone before me, inasmuch as she was worthy first to be partaker 
 of heavenly, joys, that she might teach me how to bear, with Chris- 
 tian resignation, the ills of life, and how, when called upon by 
 our Father, to relinquish, without a murmur, all the flattering 
 prospects of this world, even life itself, and to depart full of joy 
 and peace in triumphant faith." 
 
 There were several other letters, written in the 
 same style, over which Edith's tears flowed copiously.
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 67 
 
 A small package was also in the pocket-book, in 
 which she found a lock of dark hair, and a plain gold 
 ring. The words, " My dear wife's hair, and her 
 wedding-ring, destined for my little Edith," gave a 
 sacredness to them which made their value inestima- 
 ble. She placed the ring on her finger, determining 
 never to remove it, unless it should become, in after- 
 years, the symbol of her own plighted faith. She 
 closed the book with a fervent kiss, went to her 
 school duties, fortified, she thought, to bear all firmly 
 that might await her. 
 
 There are trials in an English boarding-school 
 hard to be borne, because they come upon young 
 and undisciplined minds ; there are pleasures also, 
 which even the young can appreciate. Among the 
 latter were the delightful walks in which the pupils 
 of Elms-gate House were indulged. They often 
 strayed, accompanied by the teachers, through groves 
 and fields rich with autumn flowers, the asters, 
 golden-rod, &c. ; or strolled on the fertile banks of 
 the Medway, whose silvery stream wandered through 
 lovely regions, and near which were beautiful villas 
 belonging to the rich men of Kent. At other times, 
 the walks would be through woody lanes, where the 
 woodbine still bloomed with the autumn harebell ; 
 where, from a little spring which often ran bubbling 
 under a hedge, the girls would delightedly take up 
 the water in their hands, and revel in its coolness. 
 But the great pleasure was to go into the wheat- 
 fields, help the gleaners by gathering up all the
 
 68 EDITH ; 
 
 fallen ears, and assist in filling their bundles, which 
 they carried home on their heads, 
 
 " The weight on the head, gay joy in the heart." 
 
 Had the internal discipline been of a gentler 
 nature, Edith and Caroline might have been happy ; 
 but the rules, which were read every Monday morn- 
 ing, were very rigid, and, like the laws of the Medes 
 and Persians, altered not, unless the circumstances 
 were of an unusual character which demanded indul- 
 gence. The constant restraint was hard to endure ; 
 and there seemed a strange inconsistency in the out- 
 of-doors enjoyment and the stern discipline within. 
 
 One incident will be sufficient illustration of the 
 severity with which an offence was followed. The 
 pupils attended divine service at Rochester Cathedral, 
 and of course were expected (and very properly) to 
 give their whole attention to the solemn liturgy. 
 
 One Sunday, when the bishop was in the most 
 impressive part of the morning prayers, a woman 
 rushed up the aisle, and, standing before the reading- 
 desk, courtesied in mock reverence, saying, in loud 
 tones, " How do you do, Mr. Minister ? " She was 
 immediately removed from the church ; but of course 
 this scene made a sensation through the assembly, 
 particularly in the gallery where the East-gate scho- 
 lars sat. Some tittered ; others, covering their faces, 
 moved nervously in their seats ; but poor Caroline 
 Courtenay was unable to control her merriment, and 
 laughed outright.
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 69 
 
 Edith was thunderstruck. She turned towards 
 the teachers, read consternation in their faces, and 
 well foreboded what the culprit would have to en- 
 counter. She became painfully uneasy. To laugh 
 in a church was certainly an offence, and merited 
 reproof; to laugh in a cathedral, in the presenqe 
 of a right reverend bishop, was an act of terrible 
 irreverence. 
 
 Not a word was said when the pupils went home, 
 nor was any allusion made to the scene. Edith 
 hoped the affair would pass off, as an act of childish 
 thoughtlessness. But not so : the storm was gather- 
 ing, to break on the head of the young offender. 
 
 Immediately after breakfast, on Monday morning, 
 the head teacher called Caroline into the middle of 
 the schoolroom, saying, 
 
 " Miss Caroline Courtenay, are you aware that 
 you did a very wicked thing yesterday when you 
 laughed aloud in church ? Do you know such 
 an act is called irreverent behavior ? " 
 
 The poor child turned ghastly pale at these inqui- 
 ries, shook in every limb with alarm, cast an implor- 
 ing look on Edith as for protection, and said, in a 
 broken voice, to the teacher, " I could not help it : 
 I am so sorry I did it ! " 
 
 The gentle tones of her voice, half choked by 
 fear, the genuine contrition in her pale face, told how 
 deeply she felt. They availed her not. The teacher 
 said, "Your punishment is to wear a badge, of dis- 
 grace on your forehead all day, inscribed with the
 
 70 EDITH ; 
 
 words, < Irreverent behavior.' Come forward to 
 me. You are also to stand, through the hours of 
 school, in the middle of the room ; your food to be 
 bread and water, which you are to eat alone at a side- 
 table. You may sit during the play -hours, at no 
 other time." 
 
 The sentence was no sooner pronounced than 
 Edith darted from her seat ; and, clasping one arm 
 round the poor culprit, she laid the other across her 
 brow, as if to shield her from the impending disgrace. 
 " Hush, Carrie dear ! " she whispered. " I remember 
 my promise to your papa : I will protect you." 
 She turned a look of haughty defiance on all around, 
 her dark eyes flashing unearthly light. Her comb 
 having fallen, her black curls floated over her beau- 
 tifully formed throat and shoulders, giving her the 
 air of a young Pythia. 
 
 The governess was sent for, Edith charged with 
 rebellion. She was publicly reproved ; but a low 
 murmur ran through the school, as if in approval of 
 her conduct. But the powers were too strong for a 
 girl to contend with : she was sternly ordered to her 
 seat, but not until she had given utterance to a 
 brief speech : " That child's noble father, her high- 
 minded mother, how would they feel to know what 
 is going on here ! The whole world would say her 
 punishment is too severe." " Silence ! " sounded 
 from Mrs. Lanmeer, " silence ! or you shall be dis- 
 missed from the school." The badge was bound on 
 the child's forehead : her passive submission was
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 71 
 
 indeed a contrast to Edith's wild outbreak, and 
 would have moved to pity any other than tyrants. 
 She stood with her head bowed, the light from her 
 clear eyes almost extinguished by the large drops 
 which filled them. 
 
 The meals for that day were untouched by Edith ; 
 her power of swallowing was gone. This child, con- 
 fided to her care, sent to school as much perhaps to 
 be her companion as to learn, was disgraced in the 
 presence of the whole school. She was made ill and 
 miserable. She knew the scholars sympathized with 
 her, exulted in her daring to speak ; she could read 
 it in their kind looks. 
 
 The young martyr bore her punishment quietly 
 and meekly through the day : but nature had been 
 tried to its utmost ; and, when the bell rang for 
 prayers, and the badge was removed, she fell in a 
 swoon at the teacher's feet. 
 
 " She is dead ! " shrieked Edith. The murmur 
 through the schoolroom was like the sound of distant 
 waves : all were shocked beyond the power of con- 
 trol. Edith caught the child in her arms, bore 
 her to a seat. The scholars ran for water, which 
 was sprinkled over her face and rubbed on her 
 hands ; and, in a few minutes, animation returned. 
 She opened her eyes, and said, "Where is sister?" 
 " I am here, dearest : are you better ? " 
 " Oh, yes ! thank you ; but is the badge off? " 
 " Think no more of that, Carrie ; the day is 
 over."
 
 72 EDITH; 
 
 The pupils crowded round her, kissed her hands 
 and pale cheeks : though they dared not utter words 
 of condolence, they evinced, by every means they 
 could exhibit, how deeply incensed they were by the 
 day's proceedings. 
 
 What passed among the governess and teachers 
 never transpired. No punishment was inflicted on 
 Edith ; her " rebellion " was overlooked : but, from 
 that hour, her position in the school was one that 
 few girls of her age ever attain ; for there was in her 
 words and actions" a power which all around her 
 clearly saw and tacitly acknowledged.
 
 OK, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 73 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 1 Do you remember all the sunny places, 
 
 Where, in bright days long past, we played together? 
 Do you remember all the dear home faces 
 
 That gathered round the hearth in wintry weather? 
 Do you remember all the happy meetings, 
 Kind looks, kind hearts, kind words, and tender greetings? 
 Do you remember them? " 
 
 PEACE between England and the United States had 
 been established for some time ; but a little of the 
 war-spirit yet remained, and even spread itself into 
 schools. It was frequently amusing to hear children 
 echoing the sentiments of their parents, and disputing 
 about conquest and defeat. 
 
 On one occasion, Caroline came running to Edith, 
 looking very angry, with the entreaty, "Do come 
 and talk to these girls : they are calling papa a 
 Yankee, and telling stories -about his country." 
 
 "Well, well," said Edith, "I will fight your 
 battles, Carrie. What is the matter, young la- 
 dies ? " 
 
 " Oh ! Caroline is so cross, because we say the 
 English marched to Washington, set fire to the Capi- 
 tol, the President's house too. She says it is not 
 
 7
 
 74 EDITH; 
 
 true ; she denies also that the Yankees were beaten 
 in Canada." 
 
 Edith looked at the young politicians with a smile ; 
 then said, very calmly, " I am as truly English as 
 any of you ; I love my country equally well, but 
 not at the expense of justice. The war on the land 
 was, in many cases, disastrous to the Americans ; 
 but did you never hear of such names as Hull, Deca- 
 tur, Bainbridge, Blakely, Perry, Stewart, and Law- 
 rence, any or all of them ? When you boast, you 
 should tell the whole story, girls, and do justice to 
 the Yankees, as you call them, a nation of brave 
 men." 
 
 " Pray, where did you learn so much about this 
 war, and the officers engaged in it ? " inquired a pert 
 girl. 
 
 "From my adopted father, Mr. Courtenay, who 
 is an American, who has related all the events to me, 
 and whose feelings suffered much during the dis- 
 putes between the two countries. From him I 
 learned all I know : he also taught me to be just to 
 both nations. My advice to you is to be so too ; 
 for both deserve your respect." 
 
 The political discussions were not resumed after 
 this explanation. The disputants easily saw that 
 Edith did not speak ignorantly ; and the memory of 
 her father, her gallant father, came vividly before 
 her, lending animation to her manner, and giving 
 eloquence to her speech. 
 
 The Christmas holidays now approached. Trials
 
 OB, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 75 
 
 were endured with comparative cheerfulness ; for a 
 bright future was before all at East Gate, a re-union 
 with friends, a restoration to home comforts. Les- 
 sons were less strictly marked ; games were allowed 
 in the evenings, when the studies for the next day 
 were finished; pleasures, freedom, were increased. 
 But the system of an English boarding-school, at 
 that period, was wrong in the abstract, unsound in 
 principle, and of course erroneous in practice. 
 Teachers ought to stand in the place of parents ; the 
 voice of admonition ought to be gentle, the heart 
 taught to love duty ; no pupil should shrink from 
 the eye of the instructor ; all ought to be confidence, 
 trust, and harmony, where religion should be the 
 great basis of good conduct. To win the affections 
 should be the grand stimulus in teaching. Let the 
 pupil only love the teacher, and learning is a plea- 
 sure ; to do rightly, an. easy task : for what young 
 person can act ingenuously, when an eye of scrutiny 
 is ever upon him or her ? Is not such continual 
 watchfulness one cause of frequent deception ? 
 
 Several letters had passed between Mary Leslie 
 and Edith. The simplicity and openness of the latter 
 were checked by the fact, that every communication 
 was read by a teacher. She dared not even send a 
 message to Arthur ; but she was glad to hear of his 
 progress at Eton, his preparation for Cambridge, and 
 determined, when she met him, she would tell him 
 how she had longed to see him, dear Glendale, and 
 all its loved friends. How stiff her letters seemed !
 
 76 EDITH; 
 
 so painfully correct, so heartlessly neat, she hated 
 almost to send them. 
 
 The day at length arrived for going home. There 
 were some sad partings with young ladies who had 
 finished their school education, and would not return ; 
 there were tears, kisses, smiles, and cordial shaking 
 of hands. 
 
 Caroline jumped into the carriage ; Edith said her 
 last words : they called for Edward, and were soon 
 whirling homewards. 
 
 Such joy when they saw Milton Church, the old 
 structure so dear ; it was only half a mile from home ! 
 Such sparkling eyes, flushed cheeks, and clapping of 
 hands, when home was in sight! The carriage 
 stopped : then came the wild outbreak of joy, such 
 as an English schoolgirl alone knows ; the greeting 
 with parents, little Marion, Jenny and the other 
 domestics ; and then a run for the garden, despoiled 
 as it was of all but its evergreens, yet still a place of 
 enchantment ; for there stood the summer-house, the 
 almond-tree, and remains of late flowers, which often 
 linger until Christmas. Tilbury Fort, too, looked 
 so regally, with its proud towers and waving flags ! 
 Every familiar object seemed to have acquired a 
 value never before possessed ; a value not its own, 
 but produced by association. 
 
 Grandmamma Harcourt and Margaret were among 
 the first visitors to greet the two girls, and, on 
 Twelfth Night,' gave them a party, such as English 
 children always enjoy so highly. The choosing of
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 77 
 
 king and queen causes so much emotion ; the cutting 
 the plum-cake, crowning the queen, &c., all so excit- 
 ing. Arthur Leslie was one of the company on this 
 occasion ; was elected king, and Margaret Granville 
 his royal consort. He performed the ceremony of 
 crowning her very gracefully, and, to Edith, never 
 appeared so well. There was a union of dignity, and 
 condescension of manner, which led him to accom- 
 modate himself to those who w.ere so much younger. 
 He did it in a way emphatically his own : he placed 
 the wreath on the queen's head with the gallantry of 
 a knight of old ; and as she sat on a raised seat, 
 surrounded by her subjects, the scene was quite an 
 interesting one. Though Arthur was Icing of the 
 evening's entertainment, there was a subject not over- 
 looked. Edith was still the preferred one ; and he 
 contrived, just before the leave-taking, to place in 
 her dark hair a lovely white flower. Had not the 
 bustle of preparation for departure occupied the 
 attention of the young people, a blush might have 
 betrayed Edith's pleasure at this bestowment. 
 
 Every thing had been done for the happiness of the 
 two girls by their parents and friends. But festivi- 
 ties must cease. Christmas departed, and with it the 
 holidays. " The best friends must part ; education 
 before pleasure, Miss Edith," was Jenny's sagacious 
 remark, as she packed the trunks once more. Edith 
 and Caroline returned to Rochester rather heavy- 
 hearted, as there was a prospect of Mr. Courtenay 
 being obliged to go to the United States on business ; 
 
 7*
 
 78 EDITH; 
 
 but the school discipline was not so much dreaded 
 as formerly. They expected to meet many of their 
 young friends ; were ambitious of advancement in 
 their classes ; and, above all, Edith's sense of inte- 
 grity rejoiced to remember that no temptation had 
 lured her into a relation of tyranny exercised over 
 either. The affair of the church had not been 
 named; and she could unblushingly look teachers 
 and pupils in the face, knowing her former griefs 
 were locked in her own heart : not a tale had been 
 told. 
 
 Many of the pupils had returned ; the teachers 
 were at their posts ; and the school commenced with 
 its course of thorough instruction. 
 
 Edith's first lesson given by the governess was to 
 commit Goldsmith's " Deserted Village " to me- 
 mory. Three months were allowed, this being an 
 exercise in addition to all others. 
 
 She was delighted at the selection, as it was her 
 favorite poem, and the study, of it would be real 
 enjoyment. So much of it was so like Glendale, and 
 so associated with the Leslies, she seemed to revel 
 in the sweet scenes so beautifully portrayed. With 
 what sympathetic tenderness she paused on the pas- 
 sages descriptive of the removal of the villagers ! 
 
 " Good Heaven ! what sorrow gloomed that parting day 
 Which called them from, their native walks away, 
 When the poor exiles, every pleasure past, 
 Hung round their howers, and fondly looked their last, 
 And took a long farewell, and wished in vain 
 For seats like these beyond the Western main ! "
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 79 
 
 Though hardly old enough to fully appreciate the 
 treasures of Goldsmith's mind, Edith's love of coun- 
 try scenes was strengthened by every line. She 
 repeated the poem at the time appointed, with the 
 beautiful and varied intonation necessary for the full 
 effect, and received all the commendation she desired. 
 But there still were trials. The rules of the school 
 required great neatness and order in every pupil, 
 punishment and mortification often following acts 
 of carelessness. One morning, Edith missed her 
 French Dictionary, and, learning from one of the 
 scholars it was in the " culprit's basket," was in 
 hourly expectation of her sentence. 
 
 In a few evenings there was to be what was called 
 a " public," when the young ladies danced before 
 the parents. Mr. and Mrs. Courtenay were to be 
 present on this occasion. It would be just before 
 Mr. Courtenay sailed. 
 
 This dictionary was an incubus to poor Edith ; it 
 oppressed her by night and day. Miss Sedley, with 
 great tenderness, urged her to keep perfectly quiet. 
 Perhaps it would never be noticed ; it might be a 
 mistake, it having been seen. She hoped for the 
 best : but on the day before the " public," while pre- 
 paring for dinner, she was summoned to the school- 
 room, as the messenger said, " to receive her doom ; 
 for the fatal basket was before Miss A." 
 
 " I shall die with shame," Edith exclaimed, " if I 
 am to be mortified to-morrow evening in the pre-
 
 80 EDITH; 
 
 sence of so many people ! and my dear mamma and 
 Mr. Courtenay too ! " 
 
 " Keep up your courage," said one of the girls. 
 " What disgrace is there in forgetting to put a book 
 in its place ? " 
 
 " This tyranny is insupportable," said another. 
 
 Edith obeyed the summons, entered the school- 
 room with a pale cheek, but very determined spirit. 
 She called all her strength of mind to her aid as she 
 said, " Did you send for me, madam ? " 
 
 " I did," replied Miss A. " This is your book : 
 what is the usual punishment for carelessness ? " 
 
 " Not such as I hope you would inflict on a young 
 lady of my age, to suspend a book round her 
 neck ! It would be more, madam, than I think I 
 deserve ; though I am very ready to own I ought to 
 have been more careful. For my mamma's sake, I 
 ask forgiveness, not for my own." 
 
 Whether Miss A. was struck by Edith's ingenu- 
 ous confession, or her independence, was not known ; 
 but she was forgiven, as were all the other offenders, 
 one of whom remarked, " It must be the fearless- 
 ness and candor of Edith Dacres which have softened 
 the heart of our Brutus. She has accomplished 
 more than any other pupil : even the laws, once 
 called Persian and Median, yield to her." 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Courtenay were at the " public," 
 which came off with great eclat. Mr. Courtenay 
 took leave of the two girls with much emotion. He
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 81 
 
 tried to cheer them by hopes of a re-union in the 
 summer, little dreaming they were not to meet for a 
 long, long time. 
 
 Eliza Sedley continued her affectionate attentions 
 te- Edith in every way, assisted her when perplexed 
 in her lessons, exhorted her to perseverance, and 
 stimulated her efforts, not for the applause of those 
 around her, but the approbation of her own heart 
 and conscience. Admonitions from this friend, so 
 mildly given, sank deep into her memory. The 
 gentle, silver-toned voice, which had music in every 
 sound; the bright-blue eye, which never beamed. on 
 her but in kindness, would have found Edith un- 
 grateful indeed, had not the remembrance of Eliza's 
 valuable qualities proved a wellspring in her soul, 
 from which, as from a fountain of living water, issued 
 many a lofty purpose, many a noble action.
 
 82 EDITH 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 " We do pray for mercy ; 
 
 And that same prayer doth teach us all to render 
 The deeds of mercy." 
 
 ONE morning, when the roll was called, a voice 
 from near Miss Sedley's vacant seat uttered the word 
 " absent." Edith started in alarm. Her place was 
 indeed vacated. Mysterious whispers were among 
 the scholars, strange looks, hushed inquiries. She 
 asked what was the matter. " Where is Eliza ? " 
 A reply from Miss Gunning was, " You will proba- 
 bly see her soon. She will be altered, probably 
 very sad ; but wait until her return. Ask no further 
 questions, if you love her. It would be painful to 
 her to know you were uneasy ; and no one can give 
 you any information." Of course, nothing more 
 was said. In a few days, Eliza returned, altered 
 indeed, so pale and dejected as if a deep sorrow 
 'had fallen upon her. She spoke kindly as ever to 
 Edith, but made no allusion to her recent absence 
 or its cause.
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 83 
 
 Several days passed, when, one morning in the 
 playground, she approached her young friend, and, 
 taking her arm within hers, said, " Edith, I have 
 noticed your strict regard to my wishes, your for- 
 bearance as it respects my sorrow. Deep indeed 
 is the affliction in which I am involved. I have 
 lost my only brother : he has fallen by his own 
 hand ! " 
 
 Edith looked timidly in her friend's face. She 
 could not speak ; for sympathy with the afflicted girl 
 choked her utterance. Miss Sedley then went on to 
 say, this brother, of whom her father had always 
 been extravagantly fond, had been a wayward boy, 
 though possessing some very fine qualities. He was 
 in the army ; had lately been quartered in a coun- 
 try town, where he had privately married a girl of 
 great personal attractions, but infinitely his inferior 
 in birth. But poorly educated, and in no way suita- 
 ble for his wife, his father a man of violent pas- 
 sions, whose pride was wounded, his hopes blighted, 
 by this misalliance had rashly said he never would 
 forgive him. 
 
 The young soldier had obtained leave of absence 
 for a short time, and, it was presumed, intended to 
 visit his sister, to solicit her intercession with his 
 father. He had arrived with his wife in Rochester. 
 Eliza saw them in the evening, and promised to use 
 all her persuasive powers to reconcile their father ; 
 though, knowing ,his inexorable temper, she felt 
 but faint hopes of success. The next morning, a
 
 84 EDITH; 
 
 knock was heard at Lieut. Sedley's door. He asked, 
 " Who is there ? " 
 
 A voice replied, " I want your boots, sir." 
 
 " Good Heavens ! " he exclaimed, " it is my fa- 
 ther ! " He sprang from his bed, seized a travel- 
 ling pistol which was on the mantel-piece, and in a 
 moment shot himself through the heart. The door 
 was forced open ; and there lay the young wife sense- 
 less on the floor, her husband dead by her side ! 
 The scene was not to be described ; the agony of the 
 father, the anguish of the wife when her senses 
 were restored, can only be imagined. 
 
 It appeared that the elder Mr. Sedley had disco- 
 vered his son's absence from his quarters, and, pre- 
 suming he would visit his sister, had therefore 
 started for Rochester, where he learned his arrival 
 at the hotel. Determined upon seeing him unex- 
 pectedly, he had practised the deception of pretend- 
 ing to be a servant, and brought on this cata- 
 strophe. 
 
 Eliza said, when she had thus far proceeded in her 
 narrative, " I am, you may easily see, very painfully 
 situated. My father has always been affectionate to 
 me, and I have yielded to him my respect and duty : 
 but I cannot approve his deception ; nor dare I pal- 
 liate my brother's offence, in rushing so impetuously 
 into the presence of his God, so selfishly leaving a 
 young wife hardly eighteen unprotected, and 
 almost alone. He violated his duty to his father by 
 his imprudent marriage ; and yet how well I loved
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 85 
 
 
 
 him, headstrong as he was ! I should not have re- 
 lated this sad story to you, Edith ; but I have noticed 
 you are very mature for your years, thoughtful 
 and sympathizing. I know, also, you would hear 
 exaggerated statements from those who have no" 
 mercy for the erring ; and the affair has become pub- 
 lic. My brother is buried : his wife has returned 
 to her friends, some one of whom came for her im- 
 mediately upon the news reaching her former home. 
 My father has gone to Scotland for some time. I 
 shall remain here during his absence. 
 
 Edith's warm-hearted nature sympathized in the 
 affliction of her friend : she was more than ever de- 
 voted to her, and the friendship commenced at school 
 never ceased. It was her greatest pleasure to be 
 guided by Miss Sedley, to seek companionship with 
 her in their walks, in the playground, or wherever 
 she had the power to be with her. There seemed to 
 be a hallowed tone over this intercourse, rather un- 
 usual in two beings so young and so very unlike. 
 But Eliza's mildness often restrained the impetuosity 
 of Edith ; and, when the former at times saw the 
 flash from the eyes of her friend when another had 
 been wronged, she would playfully place her hand 
 over her face, and say, " Your dark hair and bright 
 eyes look very much like a thunder-storm. I wish, 
 Edith, you would practise the mental discipline of 
 which I know you capable, and try to check this 
 impetuosity. The time may come to you, as it has 
 to me, when you will be obliged to forbear, even 
 
 8
 
 86 EDITH; 
 
 when you see another injured. Would not a gentler 
 manner be quite as likely to aid the cause ? " 
 
 " How I wish I were more like you, dear Eliza ! 
 But the power is still mine to benefit by your ex- 
 ample, and it shall not be lost on me. There is 
 much work to be done, but, I hope, nothing beyond 
 my capability to accomplish."
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 87 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 " Time cannot heal our hopelessness, nor gather 
 The fragments of the vase in which were placed 
 The treasures of our hearts, but which, defaced, 
 
 Is dashed to earth and broken. No, no : rather 
 Time deepens all the lines which sorrow traced. 
 Is there no refuge, then? Yes, soul abased ! 
 
 Pray thee in humbleness to thy great Father." 
 
 THE spring had arrived, with its flowers and verdure ; 
 again the violets bloomed, the primroses, the cow- 
 slips ; the walks in the country were resumed, which 
 seemed to shed such happiness over the scholars at 
 Elms Gate. There were many lovely spots near Ro- 
 chester easily reached, some very picturesque, with 
 pretty footpaths to neat cottages ; .then an old hall, 
 with its vine-clad walls, and gateway covered with 
 ivy ; the little woods near ; an old orchard, &c., 
 scenery which realizes all the dreams of romance, 
 and which the young enjoy so^ontKusiastically. 
 
 The wild laburnum ancT hawthorn hedges were in 
 bloom : in fact, the surrounding country was a para- 
 dise. The pupils this season were allowed to roam 
 within sight of the teachers : through leafy 
 glades, about the fields, or on the margin of the
 
 88 EDITH; 
 
 river, generally having a rendezvous at no great dis- 
 tance, where they assembled to place themselves in 
 their ranks. 
 
 The details of school-days may now begin to 
 weary the reader ; and it may be well to draw them 
 to a close, or rather to relate only such incidents as 
 may have some slight claim to interest. 
 
 Among the pupils was a bright, blooming girl of 
 seventeen, full of life, animation, and good humor, 
 a general favorite, even with her wild, daring, and 
 often defiant opposition to the rules of the school. 
 She appeared at times as if utterly reckless of the 
 advice or guidance of the teachers. She had been 
 threatened with expulsion, as wholly unmanageable, 
 when her better nature would prevail, and for weeks 
 she would be gentle, docile, and obedient as possi- 
 ble, " winning, bewitching, reigning o'er all hearts, 
 a fairy queen," until some temptation to rebel 
 offered, and she would again bring herself into 
 disgrace. So warm-hearted was Fanny Gordon, so 
 affectionate, and prompt to oblige, that the scholars 
 usually took her part. The younger girls always 
 sought her in difficult lessons, puzzling sums, or 
 when contriving a way to evade an expected punish- 
 ment ; for, with characteristic disinterestedness, she 
 would at any time hazard herself to screen another. 
 For some days, Fanny had appeared very thoughtful : 
 her cheerfulness had almost forsaken her. She had 
 lately returned from a brief visit at the house of one 
 of her relatives ; and, as her mother was a great in-
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 89 
 
 valid, it was presumed she was anxious about her, 
 as she was probably more ill. "When any one in- 
 quired why she was so serious, she treated the ques- 
 tion lightly, and tried to conceal her disquietude. 
 
 Things were in this state, when, one evening, a 
 rustling sound was heard in the recess, where Fanny 
 was kneeling in prayer-time, and into which a case- 
 ment opened. When the evening service was over, 
 one of the teachers, directing her eyes to Fanny, in- 
 quired its cause. She hastily replied, " It was some 
 of the wild roses, which caught in my frock." This 
 answer was not satisfactory. She was called before 
 Mrs. Lanmeer, when a letter was found in her cor- 
 sage, tied to a silken cord. The contents, of course, 
 were never made public ; but the scholars, with a 
 mysterious air, whispered, " It must have been from 
 a gentleman ! " a dreadful offence. It was after- 
 wards ascertained she had carried on a correspond- 
 ence in this way. 
 
 Fanny never had an opportunity to offer any peti- 
 tions heavenward, or draw any /missives from the 
 earth, in that recess again. Not even to her most 
 intimate friends in the school did she ever lisp a 
 syllable connected with this disgraceful affair ; for 
 doubtless it was one, as the result will show. A 
 fortnight had elapsed, and the memory of the letter 
 was passing away. Very little had been said about it, 
 and the business of the school had gone on as usual, 
 when one morning, when the roll was called, Fanny 
 Gordon was missing. The young lady who shared 
 
 8
 
 90 EDITH; 
 
 her bed said " she had arisen very early to study a 
 difficult lesson, and gone into the schoolroom for 
 that purpose." The rooms were all searched, the 
 grounds, summer-house, &c. ; but she was nowhere 
 to be found. No doubt existed of her having 
 eloped. The consternation was general, all were so 
 shocked and alarmed ; for it is simple justice to 
 say, the morals of the pupils were as carefully 
 guarded as if the teachers had had the Palladium in 
 the sanctuary of the house. No deviation from the 
 most refined delicacy was ever overlooked ; and such 
 a violation of female propriety as this was over- 
 whelming to all who held offices of guardianship in 
 the establishment. The mystery was, how had she 
 effected her escape, when there seemed to be eyes all 
 over the house ? It was supposed one of the cham- 
 bermaids aided her. 
 
 Fanny's father was immediately summoned. What 
 passed in the interview with him and Mrs. Lanmeer 
 remained a profound secret. Her clothes, books, 
 &c., were sent away ; her seat occupied by another. 
 Her radiant face was never seen again within those 
 walls, her name never heard ; to mention it was con- 
 sidered an offence. But she was not forgotten : her 
 active kindness, unfailing good-humor, and self-sacri- 
 ficing nature, had endeared her to the larger part 
 of her companions, who would often in silence ex- 
 hibit to each other the little presents she had made 
 them y and, if they dared not speak her name, they 
 cherished her memory with deep regret for her mis-
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 91 
 
 conduct. Probably, had her wayward disposition 
 been earlier trained by religious instruction, had her 
 mind been disciplined to obedience at home, she 
 might have proved an ornament to society ; for she 
 possessed the elements of a noble character. She 
 had never been taught, until her residence at Elms 
 Gate, to exercise any judgment, control any impulse, 
 or check any wish. She had been the spoiled child 
 of rich parents. 
 
 A veil was now to be thrown over all her bright- 
 ness, her very name considered a reproach. Poor 
 Fanny !
 
 EDITH; 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 " Farewell ! but, whenever you welcome the hour 
 Which awakens the night-song of mirth in your bower, 
 Oh, think of the friend who once welcomed it too, 
 And forgot his own griefs to be happy with you ! 
 His griefs may return ; not a hope may remain 
 Of the few that have brightened his pathway of pain : 
 But he ne'er shall forget tbe sweet vision that threw 
 Its enchantment around him while lingering with you." 
 
 AFTER the event which concluded the last chapter, 
 and as the autumn was approaching, Eliza Sedley was 
 to leave school. Edith felt as if her happiness was 
 to depart with her. Their attachment had been 
 strengthened by time ; no inharmonious word had 
 ever passed between them ; but a spirit so beautiful 
 had pervaded their intercourse, that the girls often 
 called them Hermia and Helena, with " two seeming 
 bodies and one heart." Edith felt she should be 
 almost alone ; for so entirely had her affection been 
 given to Eliza, she had cultivated but slight inter- 
 course with the other scholars beyond what courtesy 
 demanded. 
 
 Miss Sedley's health, since the melancholy death 
 of her brother, had been very delicate ; her smile
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 93 
 
 was seldom seen ; and her large, dovelike eyes often 
 drooped with the tears which so frequently weighed 
 their lashes. Her beauty had not diminished, but 
 had assumed a more ethereal appearance. Having 
 exerted herself fruitlessly to the utmost to ward off 
 the sorrow which oppressed her, her friends had 
 advised a change of climate. She was going to the 
 south of France for the three winter months ; and, 
 when the two friends parted, many of the scholars 
 predicted they would never meet again. 
 
 Eliza's absence made a void in the school not to be 
 filled while Edith remained. Her devoted and uni- 
 form attentions, her gentle admonitions, were those 
 of an affectionate sister ; and Edith had often trem- 
 bled with apprehension that serenity and happi- 
 ness so undisturbed as their intercourse bestowed 
 could not continue. Her friend was indeed gone; 
 but her own departure was nearer than she had anti- 
 cipated. She had been two years at Mrs. Lanmeer's 
 school, and might be called a thoroughly educated 
 and accomplished girl ; sound in principle, unflinch- 
 ing in integrity, but at times a little too self-reliant. 
 She knew her capabilities ; but, it must be said, she 
 occasionally over-estimated them, and thought her- 
 self possessed of more power than she had. 
 
 She was much surprised, late one afternoon, by 
 being summoned to the parlor, where Mrs. Lan- 
 meer, with very little preparation, announced that 
 Caroline and herself were to leave school at the end 
 of the term, not to return.
 
 94 EDITH; 
 
 "Not to return ? " she said. " I presumed I was 
 to stay here until my school education was completed. 
 "What is the reason ? Is any thing the matter in Mr. 
 Courtenay's family ? " 
 
 Mrs. Lanmeer then told her she had just received 
 a letter from Mrs. Courtenay, saying her husband 
 had met with heavy losses at sea, and in a cotton 
 speculation, by which his property was so much 
 reduced, he must remove his daughter from so expen- 
 sive an establishment as East Gate. 
 
 " And my small fortune ? " Edith paused, not 
 daring to make further inquiry. 
 
 " I am sorry to say your property is also involved ; 
 not by Mr. Courtenay ; but the agent to whom it was 
 confided embarked a part of it in the same specula- 
 tion, which will ruin hundreds of other people." 
 
 Edith burst into tears ; not for her own loss, but 
 for the distress of her mother. 
 
 " Why did not mamma write to me ? " she 
 asked. 
 
 " She was unfit for the task, but probably will be 
 able to do so in a few days. I beg of you to try and 
 preserve your composure, Miss Dacres ; brace your 
 mind to bear this reverse with patient submission. 
 To know you were distressed would add to Mrs. 
 Courtenay's already heavily la^en heart. This was 
 wholly unexpected to her ; but, from her letter to 
 me, I should judge she bore up heroically. You 
 must endeavor to do the same. I would not speak 
 of it to Caroline : she is haraly old enough to realize
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 95 
 
 any thing connected with mercantile affairs, and it 
 would be difficult to explain the 1 alteration in her 
 father's circumstances." 
 
 When Edith returned to the schoolroom, how 
 changed every thing appeared ! Her eyes were 
 filled with tears. There are some things for 
 which all the preparations we fancy we have made 
 fade before the reality. The loss of property may 
 be placed among them ; and, for a young girl reared 
 in the lap of affluence, some strength of mind is 
 needed to bear with calmness a sudden transition to 
 comparative poverty. Her expectations seemed sor- 
 rpwfully blighted; a cloud hung over her future 
 life, darkening its brightness. She was to see her 
 more than mother struggling with adversity: this 
 was to her a greater sorrow than her own losses. 
 Slowly and pensively she took her accustomed seat, 
 hardly venturing to look at Caroline, lest her coun- 
 tenance should betray the sad tale of their mutual 
 misfortunes. At that moment, one of the last beams 
 of the setting sun darted through the casements, 
 and shed its light on many a fair girl. Common as 
 a sunbeam is, and often as it is overlooked, this ray 
 of light went directly to the heart of Edith. She 
 in one moment remembered how many blessings were 
 yet left her; and the sudden blaze of glory seemed 
 to promise brightness, and to be symbolical of days 
 of happiness. She wondered why she should have 
 allowed herself to be thus affected by Mrs. Lanmeer's 
 information ; and, summoning all her cheerfulness
 
 96 EDITH; 
 
 to her aid, the evening was passed without mention- 
 ing a word to one of her companions, sure as she 
 was of their sympathy. On her bed that night, 
 Edith resolved, if it were possible, to bear submis- 
 sively the changes of fortune ; to strive, by every 
 means, to keep from her mother the sorrowful 
 feeling by which she had been oppressed ; and 
 to exert every effort to improve in her studies 
 during the short time which yet remained to her at 
 school. 
 
 In a few days, a letter came from her mother, 
 written in a spirit of cheerful submission, which, if 
 possible, added to Edith's love for this estimable 
 woman. She wrote her, adversity always strength- 
 ened ties of affection where the heart was properly 
 disciplined. " At any rate," continued she, " I seem 
 to love my children more dearly than ever. Your 
 home, Edith, must always be with us, until I con- 
 sign you to a still nearer protector : we will share 
 together what is left of our fortunes, and mutually 
 comfort each other. My husband suffers so much in 
 the disappointment of his hopes, his letters are so 
 desponding, that I feel called upon to make addi- 
 tional efforts for his dear sake." 
 
 Edith applied herself more diligently than ever, 
 and exhorted Caroline to industry and perseverance 
 in her studies, suggesting to her that they might 
 soon be called home. Mrs. Courtenay's next letter 
 announced her intention of quitting her house for a 
 less expensive one, dismissing the footman, and try-
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 97 
 
 ing, by every proper means, to live economically, 
 and in a way very different from her former mode of 
 life. 
 
 Time travelled on until near the close of the term, 
 when Edith's last poetical recitation was to be Par- 
 nell's " Hermit." The examination in the other 
 studies was to be private ; but the declamation would 
 take place before the assembled school, and was by 
 far the most interesting exercise. She had committed 
 it thoroughly to memory ', the pupils flattered her 
 upon her beautiful style of elocution ; she had been 
 pronounced the best speaker in the class ; and, as 
 the day approached for this exhibition, she felt very 
 sanguine the prize would be awarded her. Nobody 
 doubted it ; the young ladies, as if by common con- 
 sent, said she must receive it ; competition there 
 could not be, as her manner of speaking was unri- 
 valled. Had Eliza Sedley been there, Edith would 
 have been less susceptible to the flattery about her ; 
 for her calm judgment would have warned her of 
 the possibility of defeat, and the disappointment, 
 resulting from it. But Eliza was in a distant land ; 
 and the excitement of her young friend was doing its 
 work mentally and physically, showing itself in her 
 faded cheek and unnatural restlessness of manner. 
 It would be her last lesson at school; she was to 
 return to a home made sad by recent misfortunes ; 
 and she earnestly wished to have one cheering thing 
 to say to her mother, to tell her she had been the 
 successful candidate for the prize. A feeling so laud- 
 
 9
 
 98 EDITH; 
 
 able deserved reward ; and she felt assured she 
 should not be disappointed. 
 
 Does visible success always follow " laudable " 
 exertions ? The annals of the world tell a far differ- 
 ent tale ; and their testimony is confirmed by the 
 experience of almost every life.
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 99 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 " Thus would I, at the parting hour, be true 
 To the great moral of a passing world ; 
 Thus would I, like a just-departing child 
 Who lingers on the threshold of his home, 
 Remember the best lesson of the lips 
 Whose accents shall be with us now no more ; 
 And I would press the lesson." N. P. WILLIS. 
 
 THE day at last arrived in which the prize for elocu- 
 tion was to be bestowed. Many recitations had been 
 made, all subject to criticism. When Edith's turn 
 came, her cheek was flushed with hope, almost with 
 certainty of success ; for, on the morning of the day, 
 the young ladies of her class had said they would 
 make a Corinna of her, and crown her with a chaplet 
 of evergreen, as they could not bestow les lauriers. 
 Of course, all these flattering assurances of success 
 heated Edith's imagination, and filled her mind with 
 confidence. She turned her eyes, while speaking, 
 towards that part of the room where her warmest 
 friends were seated ; she read approval in their 
 faces ; and she proceeded with all the energy of a
 
 100 EDITH; 
 
 well-trained orator. She had reached that part of 
 the poem where the hermit 
 
 " Bursts the bands of fear, and wildly cries, 
 ' Detested wretch ! ' But scarce his speech began, 
 When the strange partner seemed no longer man." 
 
 She had exerted herself to the utmost, to give full 
 force to the changes in these lines ; her nerves had 
 been overtasked ; and, suddenly pausing, she burst 
 into hysterical sobs. The silence of death pervaded 
 the schoolroom : the pupils were moved almost to 
 tears with her. Poor Edith! she tried to subdue 
 her emotion ; made an effort to speak, but in vain ; 
 her voice was gone. The silence was broken by a 
 calm, cold voice, which said, 
 
 " You may take your seat, Miss Dacres : there 
 will be nothing more required of you." 
 
 Her courage returned in a moment ; her hands 
 were removed from her face ; and, throwing back 
 the dark curls which had shadowed her cheeks, she 
 inquired, "Am I to lose all chance for the prize, 
 be allowed no second trial, because my overtasked 
 mind could not bear so much excitement, and yielded 
 to feelings I was no longer able to control ? " 
 
 "No allowance can be made," replied Mrs. Lan- 
 meer ; " it would be unjust to the other candidates, 
 and a wrong precedent: all here are expected to 
 exercise sufficient self-command as not to sob or cry 
 at improper times." 
 
 These words were uttered in a tone of asperity not
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 101 
 
 exactly in accordance with the sentiment just pro- 
 nounced ; but there was no appeal, and Edith walked 
 to her seat with a proud step. She had failed neither 
 in memory nor in intonation ; she " broke down," as 
 it was termed, from an over-desire of success ; she 
 felt no shame of failure, and saw the prize bestowed 
 on another without one sentiment of envy or anger. 
 She was disappointed, but not abashed : her mind 
 was of a cast too elevated to allow any mean feeling 
 an entrance. 
 
 " It will do me good," said Edith. And it proved 
 a salutary lesson ; for, had she been less susceptible 
 of praise, had not her undue appreciation of her own 
 gifts made her so confident of success, her nerves 
 had been less excited, and no failure of voice would 
 have probably occurred. 
 
 When the day was over, as, fatigued and dispirited, 
 she was caressing Caroline to relieve her exhaustion, 
 the scholars crowded round her with the wreath, to 
 which had been added some hot-house flowers. She 
 steadily rejected it. The successful candidate ap- 
 proached her with a beautiful medal, saying, in a 
 sweet-toned voice, "Miss Dacres, this ought to be 
 yours : all you repeated of the ' Hermit ' was in far 
 better style than my recitation. Oblige me by 
 accepting it : in justice, it is yours." 
 
 " Never ! " said Edith ; " do not ask it. But I 
 would rather see a nature such as yours, Miss Burke, 
 such freedom from selfishness, than wear a diadem 
 or a medal, such things are comparatively worth- 
 
 9*
 
 102 EDITH; 
 
 less ; but I will accept what I shall prize more." 
 And she held up her rosy lips for a kiss. 
 
 What may be said of the head of an establishment, 
 whose guidance over the young was so misdirected ? 
 Ought not some degree of sympathy to have been 
 bestowed on one struggling with emotions beyond 
 her control, one who only needed a smile of en- 
 couragement to cheer her faltering heart ? But no : 
 the stern disciplinarian could no more feel as Edith 
 did than the cold marble of Pentelicus could bloom 
 and blush as a living rose. 
 
 How sad to have the warm feelings in the young 
 sent back to wither and blight in their hearts, and, 
 but for the sunny influences of home in after-years, 
 to chill them into distrust of all who surround 
 them ! 
 
 But school-days, so falsely named " the happiest," 
 have an end ; and the hour was fast approaching when 
 Edith's connection with them would close. Prepa- 
 rations were making for the departure of herself and 
 Caroline. She then learned how strong had been 
 the bond of union with her companions, far more 
 so than she had been aware. She thought she loved 
 no one but Eliza Sedley ; but now she called up the 
 memory of so many kind acts, and pleasant words so 
 fitly spoken, that she was half inclined to charge 
 herself with ingratitude in not appreciating them 
 more highly at the time. She endeavored also, in 
 her goodness of heart, to shut out the recollection 
 of severity in teachers. She tried to think they
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 103 
 
 were influenced only by the desire for the pupil's 
 improvement, and wondered such emotions should 
 arise in her mind, what she never could have 
 dreamed of two years before, when she entered Elms- 
 gate House. There was no inconsistency in these 
 feelings. She had long been in the society of many 
 amiable girls ; had shunned the selfish and ill-tem- 
 pered ; was conscious she should leave a good name 
 behind for assiduity and patience. She had be- 
 friended the oppressed when occasion required, and, 
 if she had been less social in her feelings than many 
 of her school-fellows, had never shrunk from receiv- 
 ing attention. The word "tyrant," as applied to 
 some individuals, was softened : she hoped to forget 
 there was such a word. Making an effort to remem- 
 ber only kindness, tenderness in occasional illnesses, 
 and the earnest wish to see her a scholar and a lady- 
 like girl, her forgiving nature determined to dwell 
 no more upon the questionable methods adopted to 
 make her such. 
 
 With these feelings, the hour of parting was a sad 
 one. Caroline had always been a great favorite, and 
 was loaded with caresses. A dozen " good-bys " 
 were spoken at once ; " Don't forget us, dear Carrie ! " 
 was echoed all round. 
 
 Edith looked in each familiar face, in many for 
 the last time : the tears streamed over her cheeks, the 
 paleness of which told how she suffered. She em- 
 braced the members of her class fervently; gazed at 
 every familiar spot in the schoolroom : that room,
 
 104 EDITH ; 
 
 lighted in summer by the setting sun, through the 
 casements of which had crept the wild rose and 
 honeysuckle in such luxuriance, and which, in cold 
 winter mornings, had seen the joyous group of girls 
 crowding round the large coal fire, that room was 
 never again to be entered ; all its sad and its pleasant 
 associations were now to be at rest. The playground 
 was the last spot to be visited : here she had first 
 learned to love Eliza Sedley ; here heard her first 
 sweet accents of encouragement; here had echoed 
 the merry laugh from many gay hearts ; here the 
 elastic step had bounded forward, to chase the flying 
 girl who held the ball or struck the shuttlecock. 
 
 All was now ended : her companions were silently 
 standing by her, watching the expression in her 
 varying countenance, when she suddenly exclaimed, 
 " Dear, dear girls, may God bless you ! " and, in a 
 few minutes, the sound of the retreating carriage- 
 wheels was all left to them of the loved Edith 
 Dacres. The place which knew her knew her no 
 more. 
 
 " We loved thee passing well : thon wert a beam 
 Of pleasant beauty on this stormy sea."
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 105 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 " She walks in beauty, like the night 
 Of cloudless climes and starry skies ; 
 
 And all that's best of dark and bright 
 Meet in her aspect and her eyes : 
 
 Thus mellowed to that tender light 
 Which heaven to gaudy day denies." 
 
 AFFAIRS at Glendale Farm had changed but little. 
 Mary Leslie might daily be seen pursuing her duties 
 as a housekeeper, or seated in the library, either 
 drawing or reading. Her walks to the cottages were 
 generally alone, as Matilda was still at school, and 
 Arthur had gone from Eton to Cambridge ; and 
 while Mr. Leslie was busily engaged on his estate, 
 directing various improvements, Mary was necessa- 
 rily thrown upon her own resources. 
 
 Though generally cheerful, she often longed for 
 the society of Edith, and wished the time to arrive 
 when she could be with her, as her brief visits 
 during the vacations had been any thing but satisfac- 
 tory. She often had letters from her, and her well- 
 known handwriting was never received but with 
 pleasure : still, the restraint under which she wrote
 
 106 EDITH; 
 
 could hardly be said to afford an assurance whether 
 she really was happy or not. Mary so much desired 
 long and free conversations with her young friend, 
 now site was old enough to be her companion; 
 longed to look upon her bright, intelligent face, to 
 hear the sweet tones of her voice. Mrs. Courtenay 
 had informed her of Edith's improvement in music, 
 for which she had early displayed a very decided 
 taste and fondness. In drawing, too, she had made 
 great proficiency. The latter accomplishment Mary 
 could enjoy with her ; but she had no ear for music, 
 and knew nothing of the science. The news of Mr. 
 Courtenay's loss of property had been known some 
 time at Glendale. With Mary, it was cause for deep 
 sorrow ; but Mr. Leslie had no sympathy with " spe- 
 culators," and spoke of Mr. Courtenay as having 
 induced his misfortunes by his own want of fore- 
 thought. 
 
 " Who but a madman would have risked such an 
 amount of property at one time, or on the fluctua- 
 tions of a cotton -market ? The dispersion of the 
 West-India fleet in a hurricane, or their sudden 
 arrival when supposed to be lost, is what all should 
 be prepared for. Of course, either event affects the 
 price of cotton." 
 
 This was his way of talking. Nobody contradicted 
 him or disputed his opinion, as he seldom yielded 
 to argument ; his own judgment he was apt to con- 
 sider infallible : but there were those who thought, 
 if Mr. Courtenay had erred, it was in listening to
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 107 
 
 those in whom he had too much confidence, and 
 being influenced by them. Luckily, the winds did 
 not whisper to him in the United States what his 
 friends said of him in England : exposed as he was 
 to all the perplexities of pecuniary embarrassments, 
 without the solace of his wife's encouraging cheerful- 
 ness or his children's presence, he was sufficiently 
 unhappy without this additional cause for disquietude. 
 
 Nobody who witnessed his efforts to retrieve his 
 affairs, or who knew one-half of his daily trials, 
 would have ever uttered a reproachful word. 
 
 As Mary sat busily engaged with her needle, one 
 morning, a servant handed her a letter, addressed to 
 her father : it was sealed with black wax, and post- 
 marked Glasgow. She immediately despatched the 
 servant for him. When he entered the library, she 
 said, holding the letter towards him, 
 
 " Papa, I fear there is bad news from Scotland : 
 this seal speaks of evil tidings." 
 
 Mr. Leslie, during its perusal, appeared much 
 shocked, and, handing it to his daughter, said, " My 
 poor brother Arthur is dead ! " 
 
 " Dead, papa ? " 
 
 " Yes, my dear, he is dead, and, ere this, buried. 
 I am, it seems, one of his executors, and must be off 
 for Scotland immediately. How will you get on 
 alone ? Matilda cannot come home ; and I should 
 be very unwilling to ask permission for Arthur to 
 leave college, even for a fortnight. What will you 
 do?"
 
 108 
 
 EDITH 
 
 " Oh ! " said Mary, " Edith Dacres has just left 
 school. I will send for her, if Mrs. Courtenay will 
 spare her for a week or two." 
 
 " I am very glad you will have so pleasant a com- 
 panion, Mary : you will have drawing, music, and 
 all other things for your happiness." 
 
 " Except your society, papa ; and the knowledge 
 of your being on a journey in a bad season, and on 
 a melancholy occasion, will add to my sorrow for 
 your absence." 
 
 " But, Mary," returned her father, " you have 
 said not a word about Arthur's legacy : two thou- 
 sand pounds for his name, so the will says." 
 
 " He will make a good use of it," said Mary ; 
 " and I think it speaks well for my uncle's confi- 
 dence in him, to allow immediate possession : he is 
 not yet twenty years old." 
 
 " My brother always loved him," replied Mr. Les- 
 lie, "and has often said he was proud he bore his 
 name. Poor fellow ! I wish I could have seen him ; 
 but his illness was of so short duration, I could not 
 have reached him." 
 
 The next day, Mr. Leslie left home. Mary wrote 
 to her brother of his uncle's sudden death ; and to 
 Mrs. Courtenay, to ask for Edith's society. She 
 was not one of those young ladies who cannot bear 
 to be alone, who need excitement to make the coun- 
 try endurable ; but her father so seldom left home 
 for more than a day, that she felt time would per- 
 haps move slowly without companionship with some
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 109 
 
 one. The weather, too, at that season, was cold, 
 damp, and foggy ; the evenings long, when the pelt- 
 ing rain or the sighing wind would alone disturb her 
 solitude. No wonder Mary desired a bright and 
 beautiful girl to occupy a place by the fireside or at 
 the tea-table. The first evening of Mr. Leslie's ab- 
 sence was dreary enough ; for the weather had been 
 threatening a storm all day, and, by eight o'clock, it 
 came on with much violence. Mary sat alone in 
 the library, busily engaged alternately with her work 
 and a book : but the possibility of any exposure to 
 her father in such a night caused too much excite- 
 ment for either to interest her long; and she sat 
 listening to the wind until her usual hour for retiring, 
 longing to see Edith, or to have Arthur at home, if 
 only to hear a voice say the simple words, " Good- 
 night ! " 
 
 10
 
 110 EDITH 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 " I do not love thee ; yet, when thou art gone, 
 
 I hate the sound (though those who speak be dear) 
 Which breaks the lingering echo of the tone 
 Thy Toice of music leaves upon my ear." 
 
 THE sun was still high, in the heavens when the car- 
 riage which conveyed Edith and Caroline stopped 
 before the house into which Mrs. Courtenay had 
 removed. It was smaller than the former mansion; 
 but it looked cheerful in the bright sunlight. The 
 door was opened by dear, good Jenny ; and, in a 
 moment, the two girls were in their mother's fond 
 embrace. 
 
 " Edith, my dear Edith, how tall you are ! how 
 you are changed ! But you are pale, love ; while 
 Caroline looks as fresh as a rose, with her glowing 
 cheeks." 
 
 " I have been fatigued and excited, mamma, dur- 
 ing the past fortnight, but shall soon have a bloom 
 equal to Caroline's. I only need rest." 
 
 " You find me in a different house from the one 
 you left," said Mrs. Courtenay, dejectedly ; " but
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. Ill 
 
 happiness is not the necessary inmate of a large house, 
 and I think we shall be happy now we are once more 
 together. Did Edward feel anxious to be able to 
 return ? " 
 
 " He said," replied Edith, " a few days before we 
 left, that he hoped you would allow him to be at 
 home in the next vacation, and not let him return to 
 Rochester. He seems very desirous to go to Ame- 
 rica; threatens to tease until he is permitted to 
 go." 
 
 " That will depend upon what his father writes : 
 I shall have nothing to say upon the subject." 
 
 The joy of being again restored to Mrs. Courtenay 
 and home soon made Edith's cheeks bloom as they 
 were wont. The house was cheerful, yet quiet. 
 She missed, for a time, the busy scenes of school- 
 life, the regularity of her days' employments, and 
 found it difficult at first, with so many interruptions, 
 to obtain opportunities for practising either music or 
 drawing. 
 
 Then there were so many young friends to see, 
 Grandmamma Harcourt and Margaret to visit often, 
 and the days were so short and so dark, how 
 was it she could accomplish so much at East- 
 gate House ? She soon, however, fell into her old 
 habits of studying a part of every day, reviewing 
 her French, history, &c., resolutely determining to 
 lose no time. 
 
 The subject of her reduced income was, at her 
 request, not discussed : there were still a thousand
 
 EDITH; 
 
 pounds left ; and she hoped the interest of this sum 
 would meet all her expenses. Luxuries she could 
 easily resign ; and a chance yet existed that her 
 affairs might turn out, in a year or two, better than 
 was at first expected. 
 
 She exerted every effort to keep up her mother's 
 spirits, which were apt to falter when letters arrived 
 from Mr. Courtenay. He evidently tried to write 
 cheerfully : he often spoke of himself as returning 
 to England a man of broken fortunes ; at other times, 
 feared he should not be able to arrange his business 
 to leave America, and that he should be obliged to 
 send for his family. He seemed to mourn so much 
 over the separation from them, that Mrs. Courtenay 
 earnestly implored him to consult his own happiness 
 alone. She was willing to undertake the voyage, to 
 do any thing, only to know he was happy ; to think 
 not of wealth, or to care for it : a bare competence 
 for herself and children was all she could wish. 
 One morning, as Edith entered the parlor, she found 
 her mother in tears, an open letter in her hand, from 
 which she learned Mr. Courtenay's affairs had proved 
 in a worse state than he had expected ; in fact, he 
 was a bankrupt. The whole amount of deprivations 
 a failure brings is not realized at once : day by day, 
 the severity of it increases. It were useless to dwell 
 on the trials of a woman's heart and a man's fortitude 
 when the sad truth bursts upon them that ruin is 
 around. To be accustomed to luxury, and then 
 suddenly to resign it, is no very easy task, even to a
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 113 
 
 well-disciplined mind. Mrs. Courtenay shrunk not 
 from the blow ; but it was not possible at all times 
 to be tranquil. A sad change had come over her 
 domestic life, and she needed fortitude to bear it ; 
 but the fortitude was given. 
 
 It was at this time that Mary Leslie's letter arrived, 
 requesting Edith's presence. 
 
 " Mamma," she exclaimed, after reading it, " I 
 cannot leave you, even for dear Glendale. You are 
 oppressed by a weight of care I would gladly share 
 with you : there could be no enjoyment for me while 
 knowing you are so sad." 
 
 " My dear Edith," Mrs. Courtenay replied, " it is 
 my wish, my request, that you go. This lesson of 
 adversity I must learn to bear ; and, while I love 
 you all the better for your willingness to give up 
 your pleasure for my poor society, it would be a 
 morally wrong thing in me to keep you from a friend 
 whose kindness to you has been undeviating, and 
 who is now alone : add to which, my regret at seeing 
 your cheerfulness deserting you. Besides, you know 
 my cousin's legacy is still left ; that will afford us 
 various comforts. We are becoming accustomed to 
 living without many of the indulgences we once 
 thought indispensable : on this head, therefore, all 
 anxiety is unnecessary. My grief is not for the loss 
 of the elegancies of my former life, but for my hus- 
 band's perplexities, and the mortification he suffers 
 at the mistake he made in investing so large an 
 amount of property in that unfortunate cotton specu- 
 
 10*
 
 114 EDITH ; 
 
 lation. But we will not dwell on this subject. Go, 
 'dear Edith, and prepare for your visit. I shall often 
 see Mrs. Harcourt ; will write you, and, I hope, in 
 a cheerful spirit." 
 
 The day of Edith's departure for Glendale, she 
 received, just before setting out, a letter from Eliza 
 Sedley, dated Palermo. She had left France, and 
 gone, for the winter, to Sicily. 
 
 " Judging from my eager desire to hear from you, I feel I am 
 not deceived in thinking my letters give you pleasure. 
 
 " I arrived here only a few days since, and this morning heard 
 of an opportunity to send you a letter by private conveyance. 
 My health is steadily improving, and my spirits also. I try to 
 think of the past as little as possible ; for the kind friends with 
 whom I am travelling have claims on my cheerfulness ; and, for 
 their sakes, I endeavor to be gay. I am continually occupied in 
 sight-seeing ; but my chief enjoyment is in the scenery, which is 
 beautiful beyond my feeble attempts at description ; and there are 
 flowers in abundance, even now, in which you, dear Edith, would 
 delight. In riding, we often wind among high mountains, and 
 through richly cultivated valleys, where are seen the mulberry 
 and the olive flourishing in then- native soil to the highest degree 
 of perfection, and, with them, what is called the ' Indian fig.' 
 
 " Our mode of riding would make you smile, as it is on mules, 
 with muleteers to guide them; though sometimes the litiga is 
 used, a sort of sedan, carried by two men on poles. 
 
 " Palermo is situated in a rich vale, surrounded by mountains, 
 some of which are volcanic. 
 
 " We shall probably visit Syracuse ; and I hope to be able to 
 enter the Cave of Dionysius. Do you remember how we used to 
 enjoy the description of this cave, and the story of Arethusa, 
 her flight from the river-god Alpheus ? Who would have sup- 
 posed then that I should so soon tread classical ground ? 
 
 " I am going, this evening, to a conversazione, where I hope
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 115 
 
 to see some Sicilian ladies, who, 1 believe, are generally educated 
 in convents, and of course ought to be well informed, as I always 
 imagine nuns must be highly intellectual. 
 
 " I very often think of you, dearest Edith, and the patient for- 
 bearance with which you bore the trials of a schoolgirl's life, 
 your disinterested conduct on so many occasions, your noble 
 defence of the injured; but, after all, we had our pleasures, many 
 a source of enjoyment which we perhaps at the time overlooked. 
 Write me as often as you can during the winter. Adieu (as Co- 
 rinne said), ' Adieu, mon ami, vous avec qui j'ai passe* de jours si 
 doux et si facile.' " 
 
 This letter imparted great happiness to Edith ; for 
 she had not heard from Miss Sedley since she was in 
 Montpelier, where her visit, she knew, was brief, as 
 her friends had changed their plans before they ar- 
 rived in France. 
 
 She went to Glendale in improved spirits ; was 
 most affectionately welcomed by her friend, who was 
 much struck by the graceful elegance of her figure, 
 and the irresistible charm of her countenance. Her 
 eyes seemed more beautiful than ever ; her luxuriant 
 hair, " black as the raven's wing," was arranged so 
 classically and so becomingly on her finely formed 
 head, that Mary, as she kissed her glowing cheek, 
 said, " Why, Edith ! I should hardly have known 
 you, though but six months since I saw you, may 
 I say it ? you are so improved." 
 
 " Well," said Edith, laughing, " it proves school- 
 discipline has been beneficial in my case : but the 
 heightened color in my cheeks may be attributed to 
 joy in seeing you ; and for my increased height, to
 
 116 EDITH ; 
 
 the exercise I was compelled to take at East-gate 
 House, where I was obliged daily to be in the open 
 air during the time I was not in the schoolroom at 
 my lessons." 
 
 " What will Arthur say to you when he next sees 
 
 you ? " 
 
 " Arthur ? " said Edith, slightly adding to her color 
 by a blush. " Is not Arthur at home ? " 
 
 " Oh, no ! " sighed Mary ; " his college studies 
 occupy all his time : he is now seldom at home. I 
 doubt, had he not been in Cambridge, whether I 
 should have sent for you, lest your attractions had 
 turned his head." 
 
 Edith was soon settled in her delightful room, 
 adjoining Mary's. They usually passed their morn- 
 ings in the library, drawing, working, &c. Each 
 day added to their enjoyment of each other's society. 
 
 Mary was occasionally called away to attend to her 
 domestic concerns, and left Edith sometimes for an 
 hour alone. They had been together but four or 
 five days, when, as Edith sat one morning bending 
 over her drawing-board, copying a little sketch of 
 Morland's, she felt' a hand gently laid on her head, 
 and a voice whispered, " Look up from that draw- 
 ing ! " She started, and as she turned, expecting to 
 see Mary, encountered the laughing face of Arthur. 
 She became very pale, felt almost faint ; when he bent 
 over her, and, touching her hair with his lips, said, 
 " Edith, I am shocked that I alarmed you : you look 
 as if you had seen a spectre."
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 117 
 
 " Not very much like a spectre, Arthur, is your 
 present appearance ; but you did frighten me : you 
 are such a man, too, now, so tall, so altered, 
 
 and " She stopped : she could have said, " so 
 
 handsome too ! Does Mary know you are here ? 
 Shall I call her ? " 
 
 " No, no ! " he replied, " I must see her alone : 
 she will scold. The truth is, when I received her 
 letter, announcing my uncle's death, &c., I deter- 
 mined to obtain leave to come home for a few days ; 
 and, Edith, I knew you were to be here. I did so 
 want to see you ! You know we used to be good 
 friends, when you were a little girl, and I a boy." 
 
 " I hope we are so still," she ingenuously said : 
 " I could never bear to be otherwise, Arthur ; for I 
 owe a great deal to you. Do you remember the 
 wreath offered me in this room ? " 
 
 " Do I remember it ? I shall never, never forget it." 
 
 Edith felt, with the intuitive delicacy of a young 
 girl's nature, that she ought not to have asked such 
 a question, and, blushing at her want of thought, 
 advised Arthur to seek his sister. 
 
 Notwithstanding Mary's rigid notions of duty, and 
 her feeling' that Arthur had done wrongly to leave 
 college when he well knew his father would be dis- 
 pleased, she could not help being glad to see him ; 
 and, as she looked at the manly, elegant figure before 
 her, she was indeed proud of him, because she knew, 
 with all these outward graces, there was so strong 
 an intellect, and so much sterling worth.
 
 118 EDITH; 
 
 The only drawback to the happiness of the trio 
 was the fear of Mr. Leslie's disapprobation, when he 
 should hear his son had been at home. 
 
 How many memories came thronging over Edith, 
 as she thought of her Jiappy childhood at Glendale, 
 all brought back by Arthur's sudden appearance ! 
 The flowers he used to bring her ; the walks by his 
 side ; his soothing tenderness when she was grieved 
 or out of humor ; his patient endurance of her petu- 
 lance, all these garnered treasures of memory rose 
 tumultuously before her, until, fearful of giving way 
 to her emotions, she went to her chamber to tran- 
 quillize her heart, and restore serenity to her coun- 
 tenance. 
 
 She was very young to have such feelings, the 
 symptoms of incipient love. But Edith had always 
 been very mature : she was thoughtful beyond her 
 years ; and, as it was said in the early pages of her 
 history, her insatiate perusal of fiction had tended to 
 give an air of romance to her after-life. But it was 
 a romance so much modified by her good sense, 
 there was little danger of its ever rendering her ridi- 
 culous. Her education had been carefully superin- 
 tended by competent teachers ; her mind was stored 
 with useful knowledge .to a degree unusual at her 
 age; and the constant thought of Mrs. Courtenay's 
 affection had stimulated her in every effort for 
 improvement. She was, therefore, at fifteen, what 
 few girls are at eighteen, womanly, discreet, and 
 dignified.
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 119 
 
 Four days passed quickly away, and Arthur was 
 obliged to return. He had walked with his sister 
 and Edith, read to them, enjoyed all so brief an 
 interval would allow, and left them. 
 
 There were no tears, no sorrowful looks, at part- 
 ing ; but a cheerful " good-by," and he was " off and 
 away." How he was missed ! how were every act 
 and word dwelt upon ! Edith tied on her bonnet for 
 a walk, and passed through a lane, which, in sum- 
 mer, used to be one of her favorite places for a 
 stroll, Arthur still in her mind, though he had been 
 gone some hours ; still thinking of his radiant smile, 
 his rich-toned voice. She felt a little ashamed of 
 this indulgence, and turned her steps homewards. 
 She met Mary in the parlor, who said, " You do not 
 look as bright~ as usual to-day, dear Edith ; yet the 
 weather is charming for the season." Edith's color 
 rose to her temples : she was silent. She would not 
 say why she was less animated, and she would not 
 equivocate. At last she said, as she tossed her bon- 
 net on a table, 
 
 " May I sing to you ? " 
 
 " Do," said Mary ; " and let the song be, * My 
 mother bids me bind my hair.' I believe I have taste 
 enough to appreciate that ; but do not make a mis- 
 take, and say Arthur for Colin." 
 
 "Mary, if you tease me, I will not make you 
 another visit in the spring, as I have promised. Re- 
 member, I am not a little girl now ; I shall be sixteen 
 next June : you ought to treat me with more re- 
 spect."
 
 120 EDITH; 
 
 CHAPTEE XIX. 
 
 " My boy, thou wilt dream the world is fair, 
 
 And thy spirit will sigh to roam, 
 And thou must go ; but never, when there, 
 Forget the light of home." 
 
 IN a few days, as Mr. Leslie was at home again, and 
 she knew how much Mrs. Courtenay would need 
 her society, Edith returned to Milton. She found 
 her friend very cheerful, though looking paler, and 
 somewhat older, than previous to her husband's mis- 
 fortunes : even three short weeks had affected her 
 appearance. Caroline had been invited by Mrs. 
 Harcourt to continue her studies with Margaret 
 Granville, under a private governess. Marion at- 
 tended a day-school. In all other things, the house- 
 hold went on as usual. 
 
 Much as Edith enjoyed her return to Milton, the 
 society of her mother, and all the hallowed influences 
 of home, her thoughts frequently wandered back to 
 Elms-gate House with strong and affectionate interest. 
 She often thought of the hours spent with Eliza Sed- 
 ley in study ; their quiet walks together, while the
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 121 
 
 scholars were gayly frolicking in the fields and mea- 
 dows ; and then those delicious twilights, when, 
 seated in the bow-window of the schoolroom, they 
 conversed on serious subjects, and indulged their 
 imaginations in anticipating the future, whether it 
 would be gilded with the sunshine of prosperity, or 
 shadowed by the clouds of adversity. Then would 
 follow the memory of Fanny Gordon ; the uncer- 
 tainty of her fate ; the anxiety to know if she were 
 happy, still more if she .were worthy their interest. 
 A mystery hung over her which no one could solve ; 
 for the interdict at school with respect to her had 
 been scrupulously obeyed. Edith occasionally con- 
 versed with her mother about her ; related various 
 anecdotes of her generous, self-sacrificing character, 
 undisciplined as it was in many points. Mrs. Cour- 
 tenay sympathized with her daughter in the affection 
 she continued to feel for Fanny, and remarked that 
 her errors were doubtless the result of over-indul- 
 gence, and the neglect of a fervent religious principle 
 in her early education. Her young mind had never 
 been trained to the cultivation of those powers which 
 would, as she advanced towards womanhood, have 
 guarded her from the indiscretion of which she 
 had been guilty, to give her conduct the mildest 
 term. 
 
 " But, mamma," Edith said, " her mother was a 
 great invalid, and doubtless unable to superintend 
 the early education of her daughter." 
 
 " I am aware of that, Edith : but she was rich ; 
 H
 
 EDITH; 
 
 and wealth, you know, does command the services of 
 intelligent, valuable women. One could easily have 
 been found, as a jprivate governess, who might have 
 animated this misguided girl to the performance of 
 duty in an extended sense. 
 
 " I trust, Edith, our fears for her moral rectitude 
 may never be confirmed; for you have interested 
 me exceedingly in your young friend. I need not 
 tell you, I should rejoice, if, at some future day, you 
 should meet, and Fanny be enabled to remove the 
 cloud which now rests upon her conduct. Your 
 good sense, Edith, will tell you that the young per- 
 son who is careless of censure, who bids defiance to 
 public opinion, from what she calls independence of 
 character, proves a want of rectitude of mind which 
 but too often ends in the loss of reputation. Her 
 clandestine correspondence, her disregard of the 
 rules of the school, her elopement, speak but too 
 plainly of her indifference to delicacy and pro- 
 priety." 
 
 Edith could not help acknowledging the truth of 
 her mother's remarks ; but she still clung with 
 romantic interest and pity to the fascinating but faulty 
 Fanny. Had they parted for ever ? 
 
 Jenny still remained in Mrs. Courtenay's family, 
 and became every day more valuable. It was impos- 
 sible to over-estimate the worth of this domestic : 
 her devoted faithfulness ; her earnest efforts to save 
 the feelings of her mistress in every way, that she 
 might not realize the change in her circumstances ;
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 123 
 
 the same attentive kindness in waiting upon her, 
 the same respectful deportment. A thousand 
 thoughtful little acts betrayed the nobleness of this 
 woman's nature, and her grateful recollection of the 
 kindness which had watched over her in the illness 
 and helplessness of former days. 
 
 Jenny's attachments were very strong and enthu- 
 siastic ; her prejudices equally so. She thought no 
 portion of the globe could be compared to her beau- 
 tiful native Wales. It was pleasant for the young 
 people to hear her describe its mountains, and praise 
 its invigorating air. Her manners, far superior to- 
 those of most persons in her rank of life, together 
 with her good judgment and sound common sense, 
 made her very companionable. One of her accom- 
 plishments was tojtfn^at parts of Gray's " Bard ; " to 
 condemn the '$j(|^Kess king," &c. : but, had the 
 questions teen put to her which were applied to 
 Miss Edge^rth's Rosamond, poor Jenny could no 
 better have explained the meaning of 
 
 " Helm or hauberk's twisted mail; " 
 
 of 
 
 " High-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay," 
 
 than did the little girl who boasted she understood 
 the poem perfectly. 
 
 Before the winter set in, a season seldom very 
 severe in England, Mr. Courtenay had written for 
 his son Edward to come to the United States, under 
 the guardianship of an experienced captain who com- 
 manded a ship in the London trade.
 
 124 EDITH; 
 
 This was a grief, and yet cause for comfort, to his 
 mother. She dreaded to part with him for such a 
 distance ; but she knew that his impetuous nature 
 needed a father's guiding and restraining hand. 
 And then, to use the language of another, " he had 
 conceived that strange and unaccountable predilection 
 for the sea, which, like all extraordinary propensities, 
 when once it has taken possession of the mind, is 
 not to be expelled by any thing but dear-bought 
 experience." 
 
 The little family was now in full activity with the 
 preparations for Edward's sailing. He was all life 
 and energy at the prospect of a voyage ; thoughtless 
 of the night-watches of his mother, who would 
 shrink from every howling wind, and whose imagi- 
 nation would be filled with images of danger from 
 rocks, waves, and shipwreck on that stormy coast to 
 which his ship was bound. His ideas of the sea 
 were only of excitement, bustle, and enjoyment. 
 
 The captain who was to attend to his outfit had 
 fully indulged his fancy for a sailor costume ; and 
 one morning, when all were busily engaged in his 
 service, he burst into the room with " How do you 
 like my sou'-wester and monkey-pea ? " His mother 
 hardly knew him in this disguise : but he looked so 
 manly, so handsome, the children kissed his flushed 
 cheeks in great glee ; and Edith, throwing her arms 
 over his shoulders, exclaimed, " How can we part 
 with you ? Dear Ned, you never were so much of a 
 brother as you are at this moment."
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay looked on sorrowfully, as she wit- 
 nessed the pleasure the young people seemed to feel 
 in the novelty of Edward's appearance and position 
 as a sailor. He caught her tearful eye, and said, 
 gayly, " Now, mother dear, don't look so serious : 
 your face is as long as the yard-arm of a frigate." 
 
 " My dear boy, where did you learn all these sea- 
 terms ? " 
 
 " Oh ! " said Edward, " a boy at our school taught 
 me. His father commands a ship, and took him 
 one voyage. He enjoyed a sailor's life, and used to 
 tell his mother ' not to whimper.' 
 
 1 There's a sweet little cherub sits smiling aloft, 
 To keep watch for the life of poor Jack.' " 
 
 "But, my dear boy," his mother replied, "you 
 are going as a passenger : you will not, I trust, think 
 of going aloft, or in other ways exposing yourself." 
 
 " Mother, I mean to learn all I can of a sailor- 
 boy's life, and not skulk in the cabin half my time ; 
 but I will promise to be very careful." And, with 
 this assurance, he seemed to feel there could be no 
 cause for anxiety. 
 
 As the parting hour approached, all looked very 
 sad : even Edward's gay laugh was hushed, and 
 something like a shadow was on his brow. His 
 mother kept up her courage nobly ; for, while she 
 lamented his departure, she knew he would be a 
 comfort to his father, as he was now a companion- 
 able, intelligent boy. 
 
 11*
 
 126 EDITH; 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 " He left his home with a bounding heart, 
 
 For the world was before him, 
 And felt it scarce a pain to part, 
 
 Such sun-bright beams came o'er him. 
 He turned to visions of future years : 
 
 The rainbow's hues were round them ; 
 And a mother's bodings, a mother's fears, 
 
 Might not weigh the hopes that crowned him." 
 
 EDWARD was gone ! The first sorrow at parting 
 with him had subsided, and affairs in the household 
 had resumed their quiet routine, when Mrs. Courte- 
 nay received a letter from London concerning some 
 business of her husband's which required her pre- 
 sence. As she should be at the house of an intimate 
 friend, she determined to take Edith with her. Ca- 
 roline was to go on a visit to Margaret Granville ; 
 while Jenny was to be the guardian of Marion, and 
 to devote herself entirely to her. 
 
 The Christmas holidays were at hand ; and Edith 
 promised herself much pleasure in passing that sea- 
 son in the metropolis. 
 
 The preparations were soon made, and Mrs. Cour- 
 tenay, with her adopted daughter, established in Mrs.
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 
 
 Harsdale's beautiful mansion in Portman Square. 
 To feel herself actually in London was positive de- 
 light to Edith. 
 
 She had never been there since her childhood, 
 and remembered nothing of it except by name. 
 
 The day after her arrival proved a fair one ; the 
 streets, for a wonder, quite passable. Miss Harsdale, 
 with a young gentleman as escort, went, with Edith, 
 sight-seeing. The first visit was to Westminster Ab- 
 bey. Edith's feelings of previous excitement were 
 subdued into hallowed serenity when she found her- 
 self within its sacred walls, the last resting-place of 
 the royal dead, the poet, the statesman, and the hero. 
 She paused thoughtfully in " Poets' Corner," the 
 monuments of Milton, Spenser, Gray, her beloved 
 Goldsmith. As she lingered in this classical region, 
 as it may be called, Mr. Pembroke, the gentleman 
 who accompanied her, said, " Are you a lover of Gray 
 and Goldsmith ? I ask, as I hope to find sympathy 
 with my own admiration of them." 
 
 " I am exceedingly fond of both," she eagerly 
 answered ; " their poetry was among my school exer- 
 cises. The ' Elegy in the Country Churchyard,' and 
 * The Deserted Village,' I do not believe familiarity 
 would ever make me indifferent to their beauties : 
 but we must move to the monuments of Elizabeth, 
 and Mary Queen of Scots. I never could respect 
 Elizabeth, with all her mighty intellect, her stores 
 of knowledge, &c. I know how much her govern- 
 ment has been applauded ; but who can approve her
 
 128 EDITH; 
 
 private feelings ? Poor Mary ! I never can think 
 of her without deep pity for her fate ; though I never 
 exalted her as my friends do, the affair of Darnley's 
 death, her marriage with Bothwell, &c. But I ought 
 to apologize, sir, for these remarks. You will, in- 
 deed, imagine I am fresh from school : do pardon 
 me." 
 
 The next visit was to the Hall : indeed, many 
 hours were spent within the stupendous abbey, until 
 every thing had been at least glanced at. The next 
 day was given to the Tower ; to the- survey of the 
 beautiful armor ; the regalia ; the Traitor's Gate, 
 through which so many sad victims had passed. 
 
 A morning was spent at St. Paul's, several days 
 in visiting picture galleries, &c., until the " lions " 
 of London had been all seen. 
 
 The business which brought Mrs. Courtenay was 
 finished, and she felt anxious to be at home. 
 
 Edith had enjoyed a great deal ; but nothing de- 
 lighted her so much as the attentions her mother had 
 received, attentions which had lent sunshine to her 
 prosperity, but whose sympathizing tenderness had 
 diffused a more than ordinary light over adversity, 
 depriving it of much of its bitterness. 
 
 All were well at home, the children delighted 
 with the gifts brought by Edith. Mrs. Harcourt 
 and Margaret were on the spot to welcome them j 
 and, although after an absence of only three weeks, 
 the quiet of Milton seemed very delightful. 
 
 The winter passed insensibly away. There had
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 129 
 
 been letters from Mr. Courtenay announcing Ed- 
 ward's arrival; his happy meeting with this idolized 
 boy ; his courage, undaunted by a passage across the 
 Atlantic at that season. Mr. Courtenay held out 
 hopes of visiting England in the summer ; but, if 
 he could not arrange his business, his family must 
 exercise patience, and feel all would be for the best : 
 he should strain every nerve for a re-union ; for the 
 separation was every day becoming more painful. 
 He wrote long letters to his two daughters, enclosing 
 others from Edward, whose graphic description of 
 his passage out was so interspersed with sea-terms 
 that it was utterly incomprehensible ; and, as Caro- 
 line closed hers, she said, " He ought to have sent a 
 nautical dictionary to explain all the parts of a ship ; 
 for she scarcely knew the difference between the 
 bowsprit and the stern." Edith, as the children 
 talked of these letters with so much interest, recalled 
 the hour when she saw the " Boadicea " pass up the 
 Thames, her flags at half-mast, bringing her father's 
 remains from Halifax. She shuddered over the re- 
 collection, and left the room to hide from Mrs. 
 Courtenay any manifestation of feeling. She still 
 cherished the memory of her father among the hid- 
 den treasures of her heart. Not a day passed that 
 he did not mingle with her thoughts ; and though 
 she tried to look the future bravely in the face, in- 
 tended to meet all trials patiently and humbly, still 
 that her father was no longer living, that he was 
 lost to her for ever on earth, never failed to inflict 
 a pang.
 
 130 EDITH; 
 
 CHAPTER XXL 
 
 " Fair-handed Spring unbosoms every grace ; 
 Throws out the snowdrop and the crocus first ; 
 The daisy, primrose, violet darkly blue, 
 And polyanthus of unnumbered dyes ; 
 The yellow wall-flower, stained with iron brown ; 
 And lavish stock, that scents the garden round ; 
 Anemones, auriculas, enriched 
 With shining meal o'er all their velvet leaves ; 
 And full ranunculus, of glowing red." 
 
 THERE were times when Edith, with all her strength 
 of mind, felt deeply the reduction of her fortune. 
 She often saw Mrs. Courtenay struggling with 
 means scanty when compared with her former opu- 
 lence. The children were denied indulgences to 
 which they had been accustomed ; and while her 
 generous nature longed to be enabled, by presents, 
 to make some amends for their privations, she was 
 compelled, resolutely to deny herself this gratifica- 
 tion, as justice demanded she should remunerate 
 Mrs. Courtenay for the expense of her maintenance. 
 This was a purely business transaction, and as im- 
 portant a debt to be paid as if she had been a stran- 
 ger in the family.
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 131 
 
 She would often sit and plan for the future ; re- 
 volve in her mind how she could increase her income 
 by the exercise of her talents. She painted and 
 drew very finely for one so young. Could she become 
 a teacher ? or, what was better, could she not paint 
 flowers for sale ? There was a refinement in the 
 latter occupation exactly suited to her taste ; and she 
 determined, when the spring was farther advanced, 
 to commence copying the violets, cowslips, and lovely 
 primroses which still grew on Windmill Hill, and 
 endeavor to find purchasers, either among her 
 friends, or the fancy shops so numerous in London. 
 But she decided to keep this a profound secret from 
 all but Mary Leslie. With the thought of her came 
 the delightful idea of her long visit in May at 
 Glendale, all around which the wild treasures of the 
 fields were so abundant. Filled with these anticipa- 
 tions, she saw the spring advancing ; she watched 
 the opening buds ; and, when the snowdrops ap- 
 peared, she eagerly gathered a bunch, and never felt 
 a happier hour than when she saw them blooming 
 beneath her pencil. She was astonished at her own 
 success, and, filled with joy, ran to Mrs. Courtenay, 
 exclaiming, as she exultingly held them up, " Dear 
 mamma ! have I not succeeded well ? These are my 
 first flowers from nature. I mean to paint a great 
 many this summer." Mrs. Courtenay could not 
 resist the beautiful smile which irradiated the young 
 enthusiast's face, and, kissing her affectionately, re- 
 plied, " Your perseverance, my dear child, makes
 
 132 EDITH; 
 
 every thing you undertake look well ; but, with the 
 numerous occupations you already have, how will 
 you find time for painting flowers ? " 
 
 " I rise so early in warm weather that I shall gain 
 a great deal in that way. And then, mamma, how 
 delightful the occupation ! When I am at Glendale, 
 I shall be out before the dew is off" the grass, to bring 
 home my treasures ; and, as Matilda will be from 
 school, we shall enjoy so much while Mary is direct- 
 ing her household affairs." 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay made no reply ; for she thought 
 next summer, or, at farthest, next autumn, might 
 bring a great change to them all, and it was best 
 Edith should enjoy all she could in anticipation : 
 the cloud would overshadow her full soon enough. 
 
 In spite of Mrs. Courtenay's general firmness of 
 character, her feelings at times would have vent. 
 She found it very difficult to conceal from Edith the 
 anxieties by which she was oppressed. Her hus- 
 band's prolonged absence was wearing out her spirits ; 
 and his business was in so complicated a state, that 
 she saw but little prospect of his return to England. 
 
 The only relief to her mind seemed the idea of 
 joining him in America ; and what an undertaking it 
 would be for her to cross the Atlantic without him ! 
 These feelings made her long for the time of the 
 visit to Glendale, that she might often see Mrs. Har- 
 court, and talk with her of her plans, her fears, and 
 her anxieties. But, while Edith was at home, she 
 was so constantly with her, so unwearied in acts of
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 
 
 attentive kindness, so quick to discern a shade of 
 thoughtfulness upon her brow, that she made con- 
 stant efforts to be cheerful, and sedulously avoided 
 recurrence to the subject of her future, lest she 
 should disturb the tranquillity of this cherished 
 daughter. 
 
 12
 
 134 EDITH 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 " God might have made the earth bring forth 
 
 Enough for great and small, 
 The oak-tree and the cedar-tree, 
 Without a flower at all. 
 
 " Our outward life requires them not : 
 
 Then wherefore had they birth ? 
 To minister delight to man, 
 To beautify the earth." 
 
 IN about a fortnight, the spring bloomed in great 
 loveliness ; the early anemones were in perfection. 
 Edith was in a revery of enjoyment, painting a 
 bunch of these sweet flowers, when she was recalled 
 suddenly to consciousness by the noise of wheels. 
 The sound ceased : she looked up from her painting, 
 and saw Mary Leslie stepping from the carriage. 
 She ran joyfully to meet and welcome her ; for they 
 had not met since Mr. Leslie's visit in Scotland. 
 
 Mary's first inquiry was if Edith was ready to go 
 to Glendale. 
 
 " Not to-day, surely/* said Edith. 
 
 " I shall not insist on your return with me ; but 
 my father talks of going to London, to be absent a
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 135 
 
 short time. I shall send to-morrow for Matilda, and 
 you must be ready the next day. While he is gone, 
 I shall need you both so much. Arthur, too, is at 
 home. Now, don't blush, Edith. He has planned 
 so many delightful rides, walks, and drives ; and 
 then the country is looking so exquisitely lovely. 
 The hedges will soon be in bloom ; the violets are 
 already out ; and every thing so fresh, and so fra- 
 grant too ! " 
 
 Edith's heart beat high at the prospect before her ; 
 but then came a vision of her mother, looking so 
 pale and dejected, she felt it would be ungrateful to 
 leave her. But, when Mary talked to Mrs. Cour- 
 tenay, she was struck with the earnestness with which 
 she urged Edith's departure. She spoke of her assi- 
 duous attention to painting as if she dreaded its effect 
 upon her health, and felt the change of air, and the 
 society of more cheerful people, would benefit her 
 in all ways. It was decided she should go on the 
 day appointed. 
 
 Edith's habitual neatness, and love of order, left 
 little to be done in the way of preparation for a visit ; 
 and, when the carriage arrived, she took an affection- 
 ate leave of her mother, who had never seemed 
 so dear to her, embraced the children tenderly. 
 Marion said, as she clung to her, " Don't stay a great 
 while, sister : it is very dull when you are away." 
 She promised to return as soon as her friends would 
 spare her, and, in a few minutes, was on the road to 
 Glendale. Within a mile of the house, near a rus-
 
 136 EDITH; 
 
 tic bridge, always a favorite resort spot with Edith, 
 she saw a gentleman leaning over its rude railing. 
 She knew it was Arthur. She could not help feel- 
 ing pleased to have him thus kindly welcome her, 
 as he came forward with his sunny smile and ex- 
 tended hand. At the moment she was about to 
 thank him, Matilda sprang from behind a hedge, 
 laughing, as she said, " Arthur and I were deter- 
 mined to surprise you. John, let down the steps ! " 
 In another minute, they were rapidly driving to- 
 wards the house, in high spirits. 
 
 Mary was at the hall-door ; and never did a 
 brighter, happier group assemble than Edith and 
 her three friends. 
 
 Mr. Leslie was often so cold and stately, that she 
 could not help being glad he was absent. 
 
 The days at Glendale passed so cheerfully and so 
 rationally, Edith seemed to feel her happiness had 
 never been so great. She heard frequently from her 
 mother, who seemed tranquilly happy. She often 
 rode with Mary and Matilda, accompanied by Arthur, 
 on horseback. Sometimes they passed the morning 
 in gathering wild flowers, or took their work into the 
 woods, while Arthur, stretched on a rustic seat or 
 lounging carelessly on the greensward, read to 
 them. In the midst of these rural enjoyments, the 
 painting was not neglected. A number of beautiful 
 flowers had been copied and arranged in Edith's port- 
 folio. Her friends told her they rivalled nature in 
 their exquisite tints. She had mentioned to Mary
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 
 
 her desire to increase her small income, for Mrs. 
 Courtenay's sake, and the latter highly commended 
 her independent spirit ; for, in one accustomed as 
 she had been to live in the midst of luxury, she felt 
 these efforts were deserving of all praise. 
 
 Cheerful as Edith's nature was, there were hours 
 when she felt so fatigued by her assiduity in paint- 
 ing, that her spirits faltered, and she looked almost 
 ill. Her bright smile was not as often seen, her 
 elastic figure was not as firm or vigorous ; and 
 Mary, for a time, expressly forbade her touching a 
 paint-brush, as she saw the inroads made by her 
 close application. After resting a week or two, she 
 rallied, and looked more like her former self. Mary 
 said to her one day, " Edith, you will be seventeen 
 before a great while : what shall you do on your 
 birthday ? " 
 
 " I shall hope to be very quietly happy, as I al- 
 ways am here. I am not fond of celebrating birth- 
 days, as it is called. I am now growing old enough 
 to be thoughtful. Sixteen once seemed a beautiful 
 era in life ; but you know, dear Mary, I have had 
 cares beyond my years, and causes for reflection in 
 mamma's altered circumstances. I cannot help sad 
 thoughts for her, even when I seem the gayest. You 
 know she is every thing to me." 
 
 " Every thing ? " said Arthur. " Do you admit 
 no other claims on your affections ? Are we nothing 
 to you ? " 
 
 The tears stood in her eyes, the color faded from 
 12*
 
 138 EDM-H; 
 
 her cheek, as she looked at him and said, " You 
 must have understood me, Arthur. Next to mam- 
 ma, you are my dearest friends. I have neither 
 brother nor sister : what should I be but for mamma 
 and this little circle ? " 
 
 Arthur was shocked to perceive how he had 
 touched her feelings ; and, taking her hand, he said, 
 affectionately, 
 
 " You shall never need a brother, Edith, while I 
 have life and health. Do forgive my thoughtless 
 speech ! " 
 
 She smiled upon him as she released her hand 
 from his grasp, and her face soon again beamed with 
 its usual brightness ; but in her heart was a feeling 
 she could not define, and which agitated her for 
 hours after she had left the parlor and sought her 
 own room. 
 
 Mr. Leslie had returned, and was deeply engaged 
 in the business connected with his estate. Matilda 
 had gone back to school; and, ere long, Arthur's 
 college vacation would end, and he would be in 
 Cambridge. Edith thought much of Mrs. Courte- 
 nay, and felt she ought to be at home ; but Mary 
 would not listen to any suggestions of the kind, and, 
 indeed, overruled all that was said on the subject. 
 
 Edith had, by her engaging sweetness, the gentle 
 and lady-like dignity which characterized her con- 
 duct, in twined herself so closely round her heart, 
 that she felt she could not yet relinquish the enjoy- 
 ment of her presence.
 
 OK, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 139 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 " For my sake wear this : 
 It is a manacle of love. I'll place it 
 Upon this fair prisoner." CTMBBLINE. 
 
 THE morning on which Edith completed her seven- 
 teenth year dawned beautifully on creation ; but, 
 she knew not why, a sense of sadness was upon her, 
 and the sun seemed to shine out in mockery of her 
 disturbed feelings. She started, that such thoughts 
 should pass through her mind, and resolved on that 
 day to try, for the future, so to govern her feelings 
 as to allow nothing so irreverent to have an entrance. 
 She was well, surrounded by friends, in the posses- 
 sion of all her faculties : why, then, was she sad ? 
 
 As she entered the breakfast-room, all wished her 
 many happy returns of the day : every one seemed 
 bright. When the morning meal was finished, as 
 she was going for her drawing materials, Mary fol- 
 lowed her into the hall, and, taking her hand, gently 
 clasped round the slender wrist a bracelet of her hair, 
 with a clasp set in pearls. Delighted surprise man- 
 tled Edith's cheeks with a rosy flush. She threw
 
 140 EDITH; 
 
 her arms round her friend's neck, saying, as she 
 rested her head on her shoulder, 
 
 " How shall I thank you for this precious gift ? I 
 cannot tell you, in language sufficiently earnest, how 
 dear it will always be to me. A thousand thanks, 
 dearest Mary ! " 
 
 Mary smilingly said, " You know, Edith, I am 
 not given to quoting, even from my favorite Shak- 
 speare ; but I will say, as Posthumus said to Imo- 
 gen, 
 
 ' For my sake wear this : 
 It is a manacle of lore.' " 
 
 The grateful girl gave her assurances of never- 
 ending affection, repeated her acknowledgments of 
 her friend's thoughtful kindness, and tried, for the 
 remainder of the day, to be cheerful; but her 
 thoughts reverted to her father, his death in a strange 
 land, Mr. Courtenay's protracted absence, the loneli- 
 ness of her mother and the two girls, who perhaps 
 were missing her more and more every day. But 
 Arthur was going to read to his sister and herself 
 from Scott's poem of " Rokeby," which, though 
 published several years before, she had never read ; 
 and this cheered her. 
 
 They spent the morning in the library, and the 
 hours passed ; for hours and days will pass, let us 
 feel as we may. Late in the afternoon, Edith started 
 for a walk, hoping the beauty of the weather might 
 dispel the feeling of sadness which had hung over 
 her. She strolled on, unconscious of distance, stop-
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 141 
 
 ping occasionally to gather the wild geraniums which 
 grew in abundance on the banks. The wild roses, 
 too, were just opening, those sweet harbingers of 
 summer. As she paused to admire the peculiar love- 
 liness of a bush which was forcing its branches 
 through a hawthorn hedge, she thought of the spring- 
 time of her life, so sadly overcast : its summer in 
 perspective seemed to offer none of the bright hopes 
 or joyous anticipations so natural to a girl just seven- 
 teen. The tears would come to her eyes : they fell 
 slowly over her cheeks. Where were her resolu- 
 tions so lately formed ? She roused herself imme- 
 diately to the remembrance of the Christian lesson 
 she had been striving to teach herself, and, dashing 
 the tears from her cheeks, looked smilingly at the 
 bright heavens above her, and felt her trust was 
 unshaken. She turned towards the house. At that 
 moment, Arthur came from a coppice, the other side 
 of the path, and suddenly stopped her progress. 
 Observing traces of recent sorrow in her countenance, 
 he looked anxiously at her, and said, 
 
 " Edith, why do I see you thus ? Are you un- 
 happy ? Do you feel your separation from Mrs. 
 Courtenay a greater trial than you expected? Is 
 there any diminution in Mary's tenderness towards 
 you ? What is the matter ? " 
 
 He asked these questions so rapidly, Edith had 
 no time for reply. When he paused, she eagerly 
 said, " To your hurried inquiries, Arthur, I can 
 readily answer. I have no recent cause for dejec-
 
 EDITH; 
 
 tion. Your sister's affection is unabated. You 
 know, at times I am disposed to indulge regrets for 
 the past ; I cannot yet wholly overcome them ; but I 
 do make great efforts to be cheerful. It has been my 
 earnest prayer, ever since the loss of my fortune, that 
 God would enable me to bear the change patiently. 
 I feel I can triumph over many obstacles, that I 
 can arrive at some degree of eminence, if I put into 
 action all my capabilities ; and, at the moment you 
 appeared, I was trying to think of some plan. But no 
 matter ; this is my birthday, and I am an ungrateful 
 girl to have even a cloud on my brow. Why are 
 you pulling those buds from that lovely bush, and 
 preventing my enjoyment of watching their expan- 
 sion from day to day ? You cannot love flowers as 
 I do." 
 
 Arthur turned his dark hazel eyes towards Edith's 
 face. A smile of ineffable brightness was on his 
 lips, which irradiated his whole countenance. She 
 blushed, she knew not why. He held a bunch of 
 the rosebuds towards her, and, as she received it, 
 observed every thorn had been removed. 
 
 " It is thus, Edith," he gently said, " I would 
 willingly remove from your path eveiy cause for 
 disquietude, and brighten it with the sunshine of 
 hope and happiness. My love for you has been the 
 dream of my boyhood, the joy of my youth, and I 
 confidently hope may be the comfort of my maturity. 
 It is no romance, Edith ; but a deep and earnest feel- 
 ing, which time will only strengthen. May this
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 143 
 
 evening's sun witness the truth of my asseverations ! 
 may it witness the sincerity of my affections ! " At 
 that moment, he drew from his pocket-book a ring, 
 which he placed on her finger ; and, ere Edith had 
 time to recover from her confusion and agitation, he 
 darted into a path through a grove, and disappeared. 
 She stood transfixed, gazed on the ring, a single 
 diamond in a circlet of gold. She turned from it to 
 the thornless rosebuds, which spoke so feelingly of 
 the refinement of Arthur's mind, and, pressing them 
 to her lips, hurried towards the house, and, on enter- 
 ing her chamber, petitioned Heaven to aid her in the 
 path of duty. What a change had the day wrought ! 
 Could it indeed be true that Arthur loved her ? 
 could he, as the rosebuds indicated, wish to remove 
 all anxieties from her mind ? Was not the ring an 
 emblem of unbroken faith? 
 
 Hitherto, her feelings towards him she had be- 
 lieved to be those of an affectionate sister, depending 
 upon the fraternal relation as a bond between them. 
 
 A new aspect was now to be placed on their inter- 
 course. She felt the freedom of their conduct was 
 ended : he could no more be to her as he had been. 
 A new sensation was throbbing at her heart, a host 
 of feelings crowding into her mind ; and she was 
 emphatically bewildered by the conflict. But there 
 could be, she well knew, no happiness for her inde- 
 pendent of a strict line' of duty. She hoped to be 
 guarded against all ambitious aspirations, all wish 
 even to encourage feelings which might be inconsis-
 
 144 EDITH; 
 
 tent with the gratitude she owed Arthur's family. 
 He was an only son, and she doubted not his father 
 had lofty views for him. But she was unable to 
 think collectedly ; and, to calm her spirits, she 
 seated herself at the open window to watch the 
 declining day. The sun was approaching the hori- 
 zon, partially hiding its effulgence by purple and gold 
 clouds, which floated like a curtain around its bright- 
 ness, and softening the distant landscape with that 
 neutral tint so peculiarly harmonizing in its effect. 
 Her hand rested on the window, clasping the rose- 
 buds. A sudden burst of departing sunlight flashed 
 on the ring and the clasp of her bracelet. She started 
 to a sense of the impropriety of keeping the former, 
 at least until sanctioned by her mother's approval 
 and Mary Leslie's knowledge. How could she tell 
 them without confessing her feelings also ? Her 
 courage fled before even the thought of it. After 
 a few minutes spent in this mental conflict, she drew 
 the ring from her finger, and placed it in her trinket- 
 box, put some of the rosebuds in a vase, and with 
 the rest, and her wild geraniums, in her hand, 
 descended to the parlor. She found Mr. Leslie and 
 Mary at the tea-table, wondering at the delay of one 
 usually so punctual. It was hardly possible for he 
 to throw off the embarrassment of her mind. Her 
 confused manner attracted Mary's attention : she 
 half-laughingly said, - 
 
 " Edith, you appear weary. I fear you have had 
 too long a walk ; or you may have met with some
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 145 
 
 i 
 
 adventures in your lonely stroll : you certainly look 
 as if you had something to tell." 
 
 Edith became more and more confused, but sum- 
 moned courage to say, 
 
 "You know, dear Mary, I am always meeting 
 with incidents, as they are termed in novels : but 
 there is not enough of the heroine in me to call forth 
 much of modern chivalry ; nor are there such gal- 
 lant knights as of old, who risked life, and all but 
 honor, to win a lady's smile. So I believe I nrnst 
 be content to receive a few rosebuds, the first of the 
 season, instead of laurels : see this lovely little branch 
 Arthur gave me ! " She had exerted herself to the 
 utmost to assume this playful manner ; but her cheek 
 became suddenly pale as she finished. 
 
 Mary's eyes told that she knew there was some- 
 thing beyond this simple offering of rosebuds ; but 
 she inquired, 
 
 " Where is Arthur? Why did he not accom- 
 pany you home ? " 
 
 " He did not go with me to walk : I met him just 
 as I was about to return. I saw him but for a few 
 minutes, and he turned into the path through the 
 oak-grove." 
 
 At this moment, Arthur appeared. Mr. Leslie 
 looked displeased, but spoke not. Mary rallied 
 him on his sudden love of botany, so beautifully 
 illustrated in the specimens on the table. 
 
 " I did not gather the geraniums, only the rose- 
 buds. Do you not remember this is Edith's birth- 
 
 13
 
 146 EDITH ; 
 
 day ? that she has reached the age calculated to call 
 forth all the poetry, as well as botany, in a young 
 man's nature, particularly when associated with one 
 so dear to our little family ? " 
 
 He glanced at Edith's hand as it rested on the table. 
 A cloud passed over his countenance. He looked at 
 his father, whose stern expression silenced all fur- 
 ther remarks.
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 147 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 " Twilight's soft dews steal o'er the Tillage-green, 
 With magic tints to harmonize the scene. 
 Stilled is the hum that through the hamlet broke, 
 When, round the ruins of their ancient oak, 
 The peasants flocked to hear the minstrel play, 
 And games and carols closed the day. 
 All, all, are fled ; nor mirth nor music flows, 
 To chase the dreams of innocent repose. 
 All, all, are fled; yet still I linger here ! 
 What pensive sweets this silent spot endear! " 
 
 EDITH rejoiced to find herself once more in the soli- 
 tude of her own room. Her feelings had been tried 
 to the utmost during the day. She was startled by 
 the emotions she experienced in her heart, and could 
 not help regretting that Arthur, by his unexpected 
 declaration and his gift, had exceeded the limits of 
 friendship. She seemed to have passed, within a 
 few hours, from girlhood to womanhood ; her child- 
 like feelings gone, and a future opening before her, 
 with cares, anxieties, and trials, for which she feared 
 she might not in reality be prepared, as when she 
 boasted she "could overcome obstacles." 
 
 Still there was something soothing to her mind, 
 cheering to her orphan state, that one so truly good,
 
 148 EDITH; 
 
 so really noble in intellect, as Arthur, so stern in 
 principle, so unwavering in duty, had indeed chosen 
 to share his heart with the yet undisciplined being 
 she knew herself ; but, in the midst of these feelings, 
 rose the fear that Arthur's father would frown upon 
 this attachment at his early age. She was poor. It 
 was true, she had at times encouraged the hope that 
 a pecuniary loan her father had generously granted 
 to a distant relative might be restored to her ; but 
 this was a sorry foundation for even a small fortune. 
 She dared not longer indulge in any feelings con- 
 nected with the events of the day. She looked out 
 upon the calm night : the song even of the nightin- 
 gale had ceased ; not a leaf moved ; a young moon, 
 with her pale, silvery light, was disappearing behind 
 the woods ; the stars shone out in their clear, beauti- 
 ful lustre ; Nature was at rest ; and Edith closed 
 her window, with emotions so strangely diversified 
 as hardly to believe in her own identity. 
 
 The morning dawned gloriously. The heavens, 
 with the deep, clear blue, had but a few light clouds 
 to obscure their brightness ; and even these seemed 
 to turn " their silver lining to the light." The sun 
 shone cheerily on the landscape, drawing delicious 
 perfume from the flowers which bloomed beneath 
 her windows ; and then the buds of yesterday had 
 opened, and stood proudly in the vase in which she 
 had placed them. The lambs were skipping and 
 jumping about on the green banks, while their dams 
 were resting their plump, woolly sides on the young
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 149 
 
 grass ; a beautiful peacock was strutting, and display- 
 ing his splendid plumage, looking as if none should 
 be admired but his beautiful, useless self; the rooks 
 were building ; and the young trout were springing 
 at the early flies in the little sparkling brook that 
 ran near the house ; and beyond might be seen 
 the garden, almost gaudy with flowers, daffodils, 
 tulips, the double-flowering almond, hepaticas, ge- 
 raniums, &c. In the distance stood the village- 
 church, with the grassy lane which led to it. How 
 Edith gazed on all this accumulation of beauties ! 
 how her heart expanded as she contemplated the 
 loveliness around her ! Was there no foreshadowing 
 of distant lands, cold, bleak, and destitute of all 
 these sunny influences ? 
 
 Soon after breakfast, she had an opportunity of 
 telling Arthur her intention of writing Mrs. Courte- 
 nay. Her nature, so open, so confiding, recoiled 
 from any thing like concealment ; and to keep his 
 gift of the ring secretly in her possession, was, in her 
 estimation, a violation of confidence towards her best 
 friend. She also told him she should value his 
 birthday-gift as a token of his friendship which she 
 hoped never to forfeit ; that, should her mother sanc- 
 tion her retaining it, she intended it should exer- 
 cise talismanic influence over her future conduct, 
 checking her too frequent indulgence in vain regrets, 
 &c. Arthur smiled at her ingenuous relation of all 
 she meant to do, approved every resolve, and, taking 
 
 13*
 
 150 EDITH; 
 
 her hand as she was about to leave the room, 
 said, 
 
 " Edith, for friendship, I hope you will, in future, 
 use the word affection ; and may you, my dear girl, 
 always preserve the open, noble nature which first 
 taught me to love you when a child ! " 
 
 " I am no longer one," she replied, releasing her 
 hand ; " and there must be no infringement of the 
 respectful tenderness of brother and sister. I am, I 
 hope, too truthful to deny you are very dear to me ; 
 but we are not lovers. Let us be kindly attentive 
 to each other's happiness ; but let our intercourse be 
 that of friendship only. You will go, I hope, and 
 finish the morning at your studies. I shall soon be 
 so absorbed in copying some of your rosebuds for 
 Mary that I shall forget the ring, and even your- 
 self." Arthur shook his head doubtingly, and they 
 parted. 
 
 The letter to Mrs. Courtenay was written, though 
 with more of effort than Edith expected. She was 
 doubtful how her mother would receive her avowal 
 of attachment to Arthur. She had doubts, too, of 
 the propriety of encouraging such sentiments towards 
 one who was to fill an important place in society. 
 It was very difficult to write as she had formerly 
 done : to raise the veil from her heart brought min- 
 gled joy and sadness. She had hitherto treated 
 Arthur without the least restraint : she had never 
 known any cause for concealing her feelings. There 
 was, in fact, nothing in her pure and noble nature
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 151 
 
 to be disguised ; and she was sure he was all manli- 
 ness, and his heart " Truth's own throne." But 
 every thing was changed ; and she felt a degree of 
 reserve stealing into her heart, which she feared 
 would oblige her to change her deportment, and no 
 longer be the playful girl who always appealed to 
 him as to a safe counsellor. 
 
 Arthur, too, was so rigid in his ideas of decorum ! 
 How even her slight faults would trouble him ! 
 He would regard her, perhaps, with very different 
 eyes from the indulgent ones of former days ; but 
 she could try to keep so guarded and vigilant a watch 
 over her conduct as to save him from many uncom- 
 fortable feelings. She should now be stimulated to 
 extra exertion, from the knowledge he had placed 
 his happiness in her hands. 
 
 In a few days a letter arrived from Mrs. Courte- 
 nay, in which she addressed Edith with great tender- 
 ness, but deemed it necessary to speak with plainness 
 on the important announcement she had made. She 
 wrote : 
 
 " Your letter has, indeed, caused me much anxiety, and subject 
 for reflection ; and, while I respect the beautiful ingenuousness 
 with which you describe your feelings, I regret most sincerely the 
 bestowment of your affections thus early in life. Are you able, 
 Edith, to judge, at seventeen, what will be for your happiness ? 
 You know nothing of the world ; and thus suddenly to enter on 
 its cares and anxieties, is, in my mind, to be deeply lamented. I 
 say anxieties ; for what girl, whose affections are another's, can be 
 without them? Every thing connected in future with Arthur 
 Leslie's happiness, health, prosperity, is to be interwoven with
 
 EDITH; 
 
 every thought. And, allowing all goes on well for a time, 
 that you are happy in each other's attachment, you must soon 
 separate : then will begin the hours of sadness, more numerous 
 far than you imagine. A separation from one we love can never 
 be without sorrow. A host of unexpected cares arise ; and to 
 bear them cheerfully, or even submissively, is no ordinary task. 
 You will wonder why I write this, as if to throw a shadow on your 
 happiness ; but, my sweet girl, I have my reasons, and I wish to 
 prepare you for some trials you might not have anticipated. But 
 of this you may be assured : I have confidence, both in Arthur and 
 yourself, that you will see the justice and common sense of my 
 remarks, nor let them diminish your affection for me. The ring, 
 your birthday-gift, I can see no impropriety in retaining, provided 
 you have the approval of Miss Leslie. You mean ' it shall exer- 
 cise talismanic power over your conduct.' This is not the high- 
 est motive of action, Edith : but let it be aided in its operation by 
 your strength of principle and religious sense ; and I hope it may 
 indeed produce as good an effect as in the fairy tale. I have no 
 fears, my child. 
 
 " My next suggestion to you is to return to Milton. I am 
 very anxious to see you. Mr. Courtenay's letters from the United 
 States are any thing but cheerful ; and I am now longing to be 
 enlivened by your presence. As my two daughters are absent all 
 day, I am often lonely, and, I regret to say, dejected." 
 
 Edith closed her mother's letter with a feeling of 
 disappointment. There was an evident attempt to 
 conceal something which affected Mrs. Courtenay's 
 spirits : her own sunk under a foreboding of ill. 
 She hesitated whether to show it to Arthur, or await 
 his inquiries : she dreaded to disturb his happiness. 
 While she was debating what to do, he entered the 
 parlor, and asked her to ride on horseback. " As the
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 153 
 
 weather is delightful," said he, " it will do you good 
 to inhale the invigorating air." 
 
 The horses were brought round, and they were 
 soon cantering cheerfully over the beautiful road 
 which led towards the village. Edith had been early 
 taught to ride, and sat a horse very gracefully. She 
 never looked so well as in her black-beaver hat, with 
 its drooping feather, and her well-fitting green riding- 
 dress. Arthur, too, was a faultless horseman : his 
 figure, so manly yet so graceful, Avas just fitted for a 
 cavalry officer. And many were the kind looks 
 bestowed by the cottagers on the youthful pair as 
 they passed ; Arthur lifting his hat so courteously to 
 the women, and Edith gently bowing her head to all 
 whom she recognized. There was more than usual 
 deference this morning in Arthur's deportment ; and 
 Edith felt, more deeply than ever, how much there 
 was in him to respect, as well as love, for his refine- 
 ment and delicacy. Yet on that very morning^ and 
 with such feelings, she gave a striking instance of 
 inconsistency, to use the mildest word. But, we 
 repeat, she was not faultless. In passing a gentle- 
 man's house on the road, she attempted a display of 
 her horsemanship any thing but agreeable to Arthur. 
 There was a party on the lawn, who appeared to 
 have assembled for a breakfast a la fourchette. When 
 opposite the gate fronting the party, Edith touched 
 her curb-rein, which her spirited horse would never 
 bear. He reared, plunged, quite in warlike style. 
 Arthur became anxious, although he knew the ani-
 
 154 EDITH; 
 
 mal was too well trained to be likely to throw his 
 rider. Yet she had been told never to pull the 
 curb unless Spanker appeared disposed to gallop, 
 and then very cautiously. One of the gentlemen ran 
 with offers of service. Arthur, with more of haughti- 
 ness than he had ever before displayed, said, "I 
 believe I am fully equal to the care of this young 
 lady." 
 
 " No doubt, sir," replied he, " if your own horse 
 do not prove restive, which he seems a little disposed 
 to be." 
 
 "In that case, I can take care of both, perhaps. 
 However, I do not mean to forget my courtesy : I 
 thank you, sir." 
 
 Edith looked at Arthur with some alarm : both 
 herself and the horse were quiet now. His brow 
 was clouded, his lips compressed ; but he spoke not 
 a word. Shortly he recovered the balance of his 
 temper : he was perfectly calm as he said, " How 
 could you make yourself so conspicuous, Edith, by 
 doing as you have ? " 
 
 She was shocked by the question : she had never 
 seen him displeased with her before. How could 
 she, by her folly, bear the idea of having ruffled a 
 temper generally so serene ? She was overcome, 
 and ingenuously confessed to the charge of being for 
 the moment forgetful of his feelings, in becoming 
 what he called " conspicuous," by her unnecessary 
 display of horsemanship. " I am at times thought- 
 less, Arthur, but not wilful."
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 155 
 
 He was touched by her candor, and, placing his 
 hand on her horse's neck, patted him, and good- 
 humoredly thanked him for not throwing his rider. 
 
 When they arrived at home, as Edith was lifted 
 from the saddle, it was with even a gentler manner 
 than usual. She felt his tenderness, and blushed to 
 think she could have done aught that might lessen 
 his happiness, trifling though it might be. He looked 
 archly at her as she was entering the hall : 
 
 " Are you fatigued, Edith ? " 
 
 " No, indeed ! " she said : " I could live on horse- 
 back ; there is no enjoyment to me like it." 
 
 " Except when you are reproved." 
 
 " Say no more, Arthur. I feel every hour how 
 much discipline I need. How vain is my boasting, 
 when I talk of what I can accomplish, and yet do so 
 little for my own improvement ! " 
 
 " You are but sixteen : I have hopes of you yet." 
 And, holding out his hand in token of peace, they 
 separated until dinner. 
 
 No questions had been asked of Mrs. Courtenay's 
 letter, no allusion made to it ; and Edith decided to 
 speak to Mary on the subject nearest her heart, ere 
 she exchanged a word with Arthur.
 
 156 EDITH; 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 " ' And is he gone? ' On sudden solitude 
 How oft that fearful question will intrude ! 
 Twas but an instant past, and here he stood ! 
 And now " CORSAIR. 
 
 THE next morning after the ride on horseback, Edith 
 thought she had braced her mind to sufficient strength 
 to speak of the ring, and entered the parlor, where 
 Mary, she knew, was drawing. She looked very 
 pale, and trembled excessively. Mary raised her 
 head, saying, " Edith, I know why you are thus 
 agitated ; and, to save you more excitement, 1 will 
 say, I know all. Arthur felt it his duty to open his 
 heart to me, as to a sister who has been almost a 
 mother to him. I am not prepared to say I rejoice 
 in this attachment, though I might have foreseen it. 
 You are both so young, the future so uncertain, that 
 I almost grieve at it. My brother's studies are yet 
 unfinished ; he has not decided on any profession ; 
 and you are hardly old enough to know your own 
 feelings. You certainly need not be told how well 
 I love you both : still, I cannot conceal my regret-
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 157 
 
 Years must pass ere you could think of marrying. 
 Besides, my father, with many excellent qualities, is, 
 you know, very stern. He calls it folly, and desires 
 nothing may be said about it." She paused. Edith's 
 proud spirit was roused. She was struck with the 
 calculating nature of Mary's speech ; she could not 
 bear it. Her bosom heaved with almost convulsive 
 emotion as she at length said, 
 
 " Does Mr. Leslie think me unworthy his son ? 
 I am as well born, as well educated : why, then, am 
 I rejected, scorned ? " 
 
 " Stop, stop ! " said Mary, very quickly. " No 
 one, my dear Edith, ever hinted at your being scorned 
 or rejected. My father calls all love-affairs romance, 
 nonsense, forgetting how he once felt. There is, 
 there can be, no objection to you. I would not alter 
 you, Edith, if I could ; for your little flashes of 
 temper, shall I call them ? I often think, give an 
 additional charm, as they are always so unexpected. 
 I am very willing you should love Arthur, and that 
 he should love you. I hope, in time, you may be 
 united ; but, at present, be to each other as you 
 have been. Place the ring on your finger; and 
 may it exercise the influence over you which you 
 told Arthur it should ! He deserves you should do 
 all in your power for his happiness." She pressed 
 the weeping girl in her arms, and the conversation 
 was not renewed. 
 
 In a few days, Edith spoke of returning to Milton. 
 She had staid beyond her original intention, and 
 
 14
 
 158 EDITH; 
 
 thought it best, situated as she was with regard to 
 Arthur, to be at home. Mary regretted parting with 
 her, but felt she acted with the delicacy expected of 
 her, and could not conscientiously urge her to re- 
 main. As to Mr. Leslie, he preserved his stoical 
 indifference ; though probably he was glad to hear 
 she was going, as " he hated scenes," as he used to 
 say, "particularly love-passages." 
 
 The day of departure came. Edith was nearly 
 ready, and entered the library to collect her drawing 
 materials. She saw Arthur with one of her little 
 sketches in his hand, looking earnestly at it. She 
 advanced to the table, began taking up her pencils, 
 &c., when he said, " May I keep this outline of the 
 rosebuds ? " The memory of that afternoon when 
 he gave them, her recent conversation with his sister, 
 rushed to her heart. She laid her head on the table, 
 and burst into tears. Arthur, affected by her emo- 
 tion, said, tenderly, " My dear Edith 4 are you wise 
 thus to yield to your feelings ? What fresh cause 
 for disquietude? Tell me all. Are you not my 
 own, my affianced ? I have now a right to share 
 all your griefs." She raised her head to meet his 
 affectionate glance, thanking him by her grateful 
 looks for his sympathy, but was unable to reply. 
 
 " Well, Edith, I intend to visit Milton before I 
 return to Cambridge. I shall write you often ; and, 
 if any thing has occurred to disturb you, I shall in 
 time know it, I am sure. Remember this, my dear 
 Edith, that I shall yield not one iota of my inde-
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 159 
 
 pendence to unnecessary or unreasonable restrictions 
 imposed by my father." He left the room ; and her 
 lips had refused to utter one word. 
 
 The carriage came to the door. Mary and Mr. 
 Leslie stood in the hall to say good-by : the former 
 kissed her fondly ; the latter extended his hand ; 
 but " do not forget us " was not said this time. 
 
 As the coachman was about to put up the steps, 
 Arthur suddenly prevented him ; and, ere Edith 
 was aware of what he was about to do, he seated 
 himself at her side, ordered the coachman to drive 
 on, and then said, 
 
 " I mean to accompany you a mile or two. My 
 horse has been gone some time, and will be waiting 
 for me at the bridge." 
 
 " How thoughtfully kind you always are, Arthur ! 
 And I am so glad to be able to tell you how deeply 
 I feel all you said to me in the library ! I could not 
 speak then, for my heart was too full : but you 
 know I do appreciate your affection ; and I will 
 endeavor to make myself worthy of it. Here is the 
 talisman ; " and, drawing off her glove, she displayed 
 the ring. He clasped the slender fingers in his, 
 and talked cheerfully of days to come. The bridge 
 was in sight ; the man appeared with the horse. 
 Arthur pressed the hand he held affectionately, and, 
 opening the carriage, which stopped at the bridge, 
 jumped out, mounted his horse, and, raising his hat 
 in token of farewell, was soon out of sight. Some 
 time elapsed ere Edith uncovered her face, which
 
 160 EDITH; 
 
 she had hidden with her hands when she saw the 
 last look which Arthur turned towards her. She 
 was alone, with only the recollection of him to cheer 
 her ; and yet it was so pleasant to think she was the 
 object of his best affections, and that she had an- 
 other besides herself upon whom she could lean ! If 
 trouble should come, he would cheer her in the dark 
 hours ; and, if happiness were before them, he 
 would share all with her. She indulged in building 
 a few castles in the air, until a distant peal of thun- 
 der aroused her to something like fear that the 
 horses might start. But the storm passed off by the 
 river ; and she soon saw the bright sun again, and 
 the raindrops glistening like diamonds on trees and 
 shrubs. The Thames, too, as the carriage skirted 
 along its banks, seemed more than usually crowded 
 with ships. The dear old for! ! there it was in all 
 its grandeur ; and, in a short time, she was safely at 
 home, and in Mrs. Courtenay's fond embrace. The 
 pallid face of her mother seemed to strike her more 
 forcibly than on her former return from Glendale. 
 
 " Mamma, you are ill, I know ! " was her sudden 
 exclamation, as Mrs. Courtenay stood before her in 
 a bright light. " Why have I not been informed of 
 it?" 
 
 " I have not been ill, my dear child, only anxious ; 
 but, now you have returned, I mean to exercise 
 more. We will walk together into the country 
 round Milton ; and I think, in a few weeks, you 
 will see restored all the bloom which usually belongs
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 161 
 
 to thirty- eight." Edith made no reply ; but she felt, 
 as day by day passed, they brought but little amend- 
 ment in her mother's looks ; though it was evident, 
 for her children's sakes, she made every effort to 
 keep up her cheerfulness, and appear in better health 
 than she really was. Edith determined no tempta- 
 tion should again take her from this excellent friend, 
 except for a day or two. Perhaps a feeling of self- 
 condemnation was in her heart, as she remembered 
 the happiness she had so recently enjoyed at Glen- 
 dale while her mother was so lonely. It was in her 
 power, however, now to devote herself to her, and, 
 by every-day evidence of affection, prove how strong 
 she felt were her claims on her gratitude. She 
 would read to her, walk with her, and often, at twi- 
 light, sing to her some of those touching melodies 
 which have almost the enchanter's power of soothing. 
 Mrs. Courtenay's taste in music was so like her own, 
 that she knew exactly what would lead her mind 
 from dwelling on the stern discipline of every-day 
 life, and turn it to more hopeful views. 
 
 14*
 
 162 EDITH 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 1 Soon as the morning trembles o'er the sky, 
 And, unpereeived, unfolds the spreading day , 
 Before the ripened field the reapers stand 
 In fair array, each by the lass he loves, 
 To bear the rougher part, and mitigate, 
 By nameless gentle offices, her toil." 
 
 Ix a short time after Edith's return, she received a 
 note from Henrietta Baker, of whom she had seen 
 but little since the time she was under her care, 
 during Emma's illness, some years before. The 
 note contained a request that she would be present 
 at her wedding, which would take place the "follow- 
 ing week. Invitations were extended to Caroline, 
 Marion, and Margaret Granville. They were all 
 delighted at the idea of a wedding, and talked of 
 nothing but what they could give the bride. It 
 was at length decided the two Courtenays should 
 present her with a. handsome, though not very ex- 
 pensive, Bible, urging to give " their own money," 
 which they had been saving for some time. Marga- 
 ret was to go with them ; and, when the morning 
 dawned in brightness, the little coterie sat off, laugh-
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 163 
 
 ing, talking, picking flowers, &c. " Sister," said 
 Caroline, " what have you in that box you carry so 
 carefully ? " 
 
 " Time will disclose," she replied. 
 
 They travelled on, until, Miss Baker's cottage ap- 
 pearing in the distance, they all exclaimed, " We 
 shall soon be there ! " 
 
 They found many of the neighbors assembled to 
 attend the bride to church. She looked very pret- 
 tily in her simple white dress and neat straw bonnet ; 
 while the bridegroom, a fine-looking young farmer, 
 seemed the very embodiment of happiness. The 
 children presented the sacred volume, which was 
 gratefully and reverently received. "This," said 
 Henrietta, " will cheer us in sadness, Robert ; and 
 teach us humility, if our farm prosper." 
 
 They soon proceeded to church. Just as the 
 bride entered the path leading to the church-door, 
 the little girls who had been her pupils in the village 
 school came forward, and scattered flowers from bas- 
 kets which hung on their arms. Henrietta turned 
 very pale at this proof of their regard, though her 
 heart beat quick with pleasure. The bells were 
 ringing out a merry peal ; and the birds, as if not 
 to be outdone, added their music to the joyous 
 sounds. The ceremony over, the party returned to 
 a rustic collation j and, when the bride had thrown 
 aside her bonnet, Edith stepped forward, and, after 
 placing a wreath of orange-blossoms and white roses 
 on her head, gave her a beautifully simple gold
 
 164 EDITH; 
 
 locket, in which was a small black curl, with the 
 initials E. D. on the back. She softly kissed the 
 fair bride, whispering, " How well do I remember 
 all your kindness to me when very young ! " Then 
 came Margaret's turn to make her offering. " This 
 is from grandmamma and me, as tokens of our re- 
 gard ; " and she opened a little case, and presented 
 a silver butter-knife and pair of sugar-tongs. All 
 were delighted. The butter was cut with the knife ; 
 the tongs to be reserved until the evening meal. The 
 collation over, Edith and her young companions pre- 
 pared to leave, wishing all happiness to the bride 
 and bridegroom. As they walked homewards, 
 Edith's thoughts were with Arthur ; and how did 
 she miss the friendly arm on which she had, of late, 
 so often leaned, as they strolled about the lovely do- 
 main of Glendale ! But she knew he was where duty 
 called him, and she suppressed the rising sigh. She 
 returned to her mother so gratified by the scene of 
 the morning, in witnessing the happiness of her hum- 
 ble friends, that she diffused cheerfulness into Mrs. 
 Courtenay's mind, which gave a brighter tone to her 
 conversation for the day. It had now become a 
 positive duty with Edith a duty which she per- 
 formed unwaveringly to try by every effort to 
 divert her mother from dwelling so much on Mr. 
 Courtenay's prolonged absence, and the future pro- 
 spects of her children. There was no selfishness in 
 her nature. Her home-duties were always cheerful- 
 ly performed. She never alluded to the luxuries
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 165 
 
 which had disappeared from the household and her 
 own wardrobe, but calmly and patiently endured 
 the privation of what she once deemed indispensable. 
 
 About the time of harvest, Edith went for a day 
 or two to Glendale : she was unwilling to leave Mrs. 
 Courtenay longer. Arthur was absent : but he had 
 written frequently since their separation ; was in good 
 spirits ; and she was contented not to see him, pro- 
 vided she knew he was well. 
 
 The " harvest-home " was celebrated the day af- 
 ter her arrival. Immense tables were spread in 
 the great hall, round which were gathered all the 
 tenantry and laborers of the farm. These tables 
 literally groaned beneath the piles of food. Pre- 
 eminent was the roast beef of Old England ; then 
 the ale, which was liberally quaffed, inciting the 
 relation of wild stories, and the enlivenment of song. 
 At the close of the dinner, Mr. Leslie, his daughters, 
 and Edith, looked in upon the merry party, who all 
 rose as the family stood at the hall-door. " Be 
 seated, my friends," said Mr. Leslie, laying aside 
 his usually frigid manner. " I bid you all welcome : 
 much happiness to you ! " He then took a seat 
 at the table for a short time. The men filled their 
 glasses, and rose to drink the " squire's health." 
 Then came " Master Arthur," when the hall shook 
 with their boisterous hurrahs. Edith clung firmly 
 to Mary's arm, to still the beating of her heart. Her 
 friend felt for her, and, as she pressed the hand 
 which rested so confidingly on her arm, gently said,
 
 166 EDITH; 
 
 "You do well to love him, Edith: he deserves it 
 all." 
 
 It was a scene of simple and grateful enjoyment, 
 gratitude to God for his bestowment of an abundant 
 harvest ; and also to the master, who never failed in 
 his efforts for the happiness of his tenants and 
 laborers. 
 
 The people departed without any evil results from 
 the ale : all moved off to their homes with clear 
 heads and steady feet. An offence from too great 
 indulgence would not have been overlooked. Still, 
 we admit, it would be well were the ale omitted, 
 even at the "harvest-home" gatherings. 
 
 When the two friends had retired from the draw- 
 ing-room in the evening, Mary suddenly entered 
 Edith's apartment, and, seating herself by her, burst 
 into tears. Edith was surprised, and exclaimed, in 
 alarm, " What can be the matter ? You in tears, 
 Mary ! you, whom I have never seen weep ! " 
 
 " I am very foolish, you will doubtless say or 
 think ; but I cannot help it. You know, Edith, 
 how frequently, of late, my father has been in Lon- 
 don, how often he has walked about the rooms, as 
 if measuring. His movements have been mysterious 
 to me; but I never question him when he seems 
 disposed to silence. But now the mystery is solved. 
 He informed me, just after you left the room, that he 
 was going to furnish the drawing-rooms anew ; had 
 purchased the furniture, mirrors, curtains, &c. ; and 
 the upholsterers would be here in a few days from
 
 OK, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 167 
 
 London to arrange every thing. I started in perfect 
 astonishment. " Papa," I said, " why are you dis- 
 satisfied now, when every article used to be so valua- 
 ble for mamma's sake ? " 
 
 " For a moment his calmness forsook him ; but he 
 recovered his self-possession, and said, 
 
 " { We are exposed to more company than we for- 
 merly were. Arthur will leave college : his friends 
 are all fashionable young men : in fact, I wish my 
 house to look more like those of other people. All 
 the pictures, and what you term fancy articles, are 
 to remain untouched ; and every thing which was 
 particularly devoted to your mother will belong to 
 Arthur, yourself, and Matilda.' He left me. I 
 feel as if papa must be losing his mind thus to have 
 changed. O Edith ! I cannot bear to have my dear, 
 familiar sofas, curtains, &c., displaced for modern 
 finery ; and so" unkind, not to tell me ! " 
 
 Edith's mind was relieved by finding nothing 
 more serious had occurred. Her first thought was 
 of Arthur ; but Mary's tears did not seem so much 
 the effect of deep sorrow as some sudden excitement 
 of her nerves. After mutual regrets at this singular 
 step of Mr. Leslie's, they parted for the night. 
 
 Edith returned to Milton the next morning, but 
 not until she had strolled into the garden, visited the 
 summer-house, the grapery, and every spot endeared 
 from having been enjoyed when Arthur was with 
 her. She plucked a few stray flowers, which she 
 placed in her bosom almost with the feeling of one
 
 168 EDITH; 
 
 who was destined never to gather another from these 
 spots so hallowed by memory. 
 
 The moment she entered the parlor of her home, 
 and saw Mrs. Courtenay's face, she knew something 
 unusual had occurred. Her mother did not speak 
 for a few minutes, and at last said, 
 
 " Edith, I have sad news. In a letter just received 
 from Mr. Courtenay, he tells me there is very little 
 probability of his coming to England for some time : 
 he wishes me to go to him, and ere the winter sets 
 in." 
 
 Edith gasped for breath : a deadly coldness spread 
 over every limb. Go to America ere winter ! and 
 the autumn now advancing ! It were as if the arrow 
 of Death had touched her. How could she bear even 
 the thought of leaving England, Arthur, Glendale, 
 all, for a residence in a foreign land ? or, worse, to 
 act a selfish part, to desert her best "friend at a time 
 when she was so valuable to her? The weight of 
 misery was greater than she could bear ; and, burst- 
 ing into an agony of tears, she yielded wholly to her 
 feelings. 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay was again silent for some time. 
 At length she said, " Edith, I understand all you 
 feel, the struggle between affection and your sense 
 of duty; but, my child, I must not, I will not, 
 influence you in the slightest degree. You shall 
 decide for yourself; and, whichever way it may be, 
 I shall feel you have acted from a stern sense of 
 rectitude."
 
 OK, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 169 
 
 " O mamma, mamma! " she exclaimed, as, with al- 
 most passionate fondness, she threw her arms round 
 Mrs. Courtenay, " I will go with you ! "What 
 would my sufferings be, should we never meet again, 
 if I had permitted you to go to America without me ? 
 I can part with Arthur, believe me I can, if duty 
 demand it. He never would approve my letting you 
 go alone ; and he may perhaps go some time hence to 
 the United States. I do not believe I could love 
 him if I thought him capable of urging me to remain 
 in England. You seem, dearest mamma ! at this 
 moment, all the world to me. No, no ! I never 
 will leave you until I see you restored to Mr. Cour- 
 tenay, to papa ! " Exhausted by the intensity of her 
 emotions, she threw herself on the sofa, as on that 
 sad day when she learned her father's death, and, 
 burying her face in the pillow, remained a long time 
 perfectly still. Her airy visions had all faded away, 
 Arthur's visits in the winter ; the happy intercourse 
 by letter when he was not with her ; the many little 
 pleasures he had planned when they could be to- 
 gether, all, all, by one fell blow, were struck 
 down ; and, in their place, rose a voyage across the 
 Atlantic, with no cheering thing for her on arrival 
 but to meet Mr. Courtenay ; a foreign land ; stran- 
 gers ; three thousand miles of ocean between her 
 and the friends of her girlhood, the chosen partner 
 of her young and pure affections. Dreary, dreary 
 indeed, was the picture ; and well might the afflicted 
 
 girl hide her face from the day. 
 
 15
 
 170 EDITH ; 
 
 Truly had her mother foreboded her sufferings 
 when she wrote her, that, " when separation occurs, 
 then come the hours of sadness." A host of unex- 
 pected anxieties had arisen, &c. She now under- 
 stood fully what she meant by this sentence ; its force 
 had indeed come upon her. 
 
 The silence in the room had in it something of 
 awe. Mrs. Courtenay sat at the window, her head 
 leaning on her hand, waiting patiently for her child's 
 grief partially to subside. Delicacy forbade her saying 
 any thing more. She knew what Edith was, and left 
 her to her own guidance, convinced she would act 
 conscientiously and wisely. At last, Edith's head 
 was raised : with the light of Heaven's approval in 
 her eyes, animation in every step, she approached 
 her mother, and said, solemnly, " I am glad, mamma, 
 I am not irresolute, with all my faults. My mind 
 is now in comparative ease : I am perfectly decided. 
 I have asked of my God to strengthen my resolves ; 
 and I feel the strength will be given me. Let us 
 now, dearest mamma, call the two girls, and go out 
 and walk. The fresh air will do us good : I seem 
 much to need it, and you are very pale. To-morrow 
 will be time enough to talk of this sudden and dis- 
 tressing requirement of Mr. Courtenay." 
 
 Edith called Caroline and Marion, and together 
 they all strolled towards Milton Church. Edith 
 slightly objected to this walk ; but Mrs. Courtenay 
 said, in a voice tremulous from internal suffering, 
 " It will do me good : do not object, dear Edith ! "
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 171 
 
 The day had been one of those mild autumnal 
 days when Nature seemed to sympathize with sad- 
 dened hearts. They entered the churchyard, the 
 profound silence of which was broken only by the 
 wailing of the southern breeze among the yew-trees, 
 which stood as sentinels to guard the hallowed 
 ground. They advanced towards the graves of Ellen 
 and Emma, adorned by white marble slabs. The 
 children had gathered clusters of asters and golden- 
 rod on the way : with intuitive knowledge of their 
 mother's feelings, they scattered their humble offer- 
 ings on their sisters' graves. The silence remained 
 unbroken : the hour seemed too sacred to be invaded 
 
 * 
 
 by human voices. Edith bent towards the earth, 
 and, gathering the scattered remains of some flowers 
 which had bloomed but lately, carefully held them 
 in one hand, while, with the other, she gently drew 
 her mother from the consecrated spot, fearing the 
 effect upon her already-oppressed spirit. But the 
 walk had a salutary influence upon Mrs. Courtenay, 
 and the evening passed calmly away.
 
 172 EDITH; 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 " And Ruth said, Entreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following 
 after thee : for whither them goest, I will go ; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge : 
 thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God." 
 
 THERE was very little sleep that night either for 
 Mrs. Courtenay or Edith. The latter rose unre- 
 freshed, pale, and languid, but, immediately after 
 breakfast, wrote to Arthur, and told him how severe 
 had been the struggle, but how firm was her decision 
 to accompany her mother. She might remain in the 
 United States only one year, which, she cheerfully 
 said, would soon pass. Then there would be one 
 source of happiness left, to write freely to each other 
 of all that might occur. " I know, dear Arthur, 
 you will reconcile yourself to this event of our sepa- 
 ration, by believing all is for the best. Think of 
 poor mamma at sea, with her two little girls, without 
 me ! You know how well she loves me. I could not 
 have the heart no, I could not to remain behind, 
 even if I were sure of seeing you every week, be- 
 cause I should feel I had played a selfish part ; but
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 173 
 
 I shall count the days and the hours until we meet 
 again." 
 
 Immediately upon the receipt of this letter, Ar- 
 thur obtained permission to leave Cambridge, and 
 hastened to Milton. He found the family very sad, 
 but calm. He knew it was a great undertaking for 
 a lady to prepare for a voyage, with neither husband 
 nor son to aid her. He therefore pointed out to Mrs. 
 Courtenay, with respectful tenderness, the fatigue 
 and anxiety attendant on the preparations for a voy- 
 age, to accomplish which she would be at sea during 
 the shortest days, when there was little daylight, and 
 those long nights so much to be dreaded. It would 
 be easy to write Mr. Courtenay how long it would 
 take to get ready to leave England. There must be 
 a sale of furniture, clothing to prepare suitable for a 
 voyage, business transactions of various kinds to set- 
 tle : how was it possible to be ready in less than 
 three months ? at which time it would be midwinter. 
 After repeated conversations, and as many resolves, 
 it was decided Mrs. Courtenay should write her 
 husband, and desire him not to expect his family to 
 leave England until the beginning of March. Her 
 anxious life for eighteen months had affected her 
 health ; and she evidently was not equal to the hur- 
 ried exertions she could once have made. 
 
 Arthur made no effort to alter Edith's determina- 
 tion to accompany her mother. He loved her with 
 as devoted an affection as the human heart is capable 
 of feeling ; but his sense of right told him what were 
 
 15*
 
 174 EDITH; 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay's claims to her love and gratitude. 
 She had received her, as a dying bequest, from a 
 friend she loved very sincerely; had watched over 
 her infancy with more than a parent's tenderness ; 
 had guarded her youth, as far as possible, from every 
 thing that could shadow its brightness ; and, when 
 the fatal intelligence reached England that she was 
 an orphan, her affection seemed to redouble, her 
 watchful care of her became almost devotion. Could 
 he ask Edith to remain in England under any other 
 protection than that of his sister ? and that, with his 
 father's feelings, was not at all what he should desire 
 for her happiness. Arthur's courage faltered, per- 
 haps, a little, when he thought of the lapse of time 
 ere they should meet. Separated by an ocean, day 
 after day, month after month, must pass on without 
 seeing each other. But he knew the separation could 
 not weaken the affection of two such hearts ; and 
 his sanguine nature led him to hope some change of 
 circumstances which would restore them to each 
 other, perhaps, in a year. His collegiate course, 
 when ended, would leave him, in a degree, master 
 of his own actions. His property, independently 
 of his father, amounted to three thousand pounds, 
 one thousand of which had been left him by his 
 grandfather, the same to each of his sisters. This, 
 with a profession, whether of the law or the mini- 
 stry, would be enough to begin the world. Arthur 
 inclined to the latter, and often, in the indulgence of 
 visions for the future, fancied himself the pastor of
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 175 
 
 the village-church of Glendale, Edith his compa- 
 nion in his walks of charity, visits to the sick and 
 the afflicted, and soothing the departing spirit. 
 
 It has been said, " Youth is the season of romance. 
 Its buoyant spirit must soar till weighed down by 
 earthly care. It is in youth that hope lends its 
 cheering ray ; and love, its genial influence. It is 
 then the world seems so fair ; and if, in maturer life, 
 we smile at the romance of youth, and lament, per- 
 haps, its aberrations, yet we must often regret the 
 depth of our young emotions, the disinterestedness 
 of our young affections, and that enthusiasm of pur- 
 pose which, alas ! we soon grow too wise to cherish." 
 
 Arthur, then, may be forgiven if he blended with 
 sound sense and clear discernment a shadow of the 
 same romantic feeling which had often made Edith 
 so interesting to him. He remained but a very short 
 time in Milton ; went to Glendale on his return to 
 Cambridge, as he never wished his father to believe 
 him clandestine in his visits at Mrs. Courtenay's. He 
 did not find the latter at home : he was again in 
 London. , The new furniture had arrived, was in 
 place; and his loved household gods, he said, all 
 displaced. 
 
 Mary seemed sad at the prospect of Edith's re- 
 moval to the United States, but agreed with her 
 brother in thinking duty pointed the path, and she 
 ought to pursue it. He returned to Cambridge, 
 much relieved in his anxious feelings by his visit to
 
 176 EDITH; 
 
 Milton, and the certainty of Mrs. Courtenay's voyage 
 being deferred for a month or two. 
 
 In due time, a letter was received from Mr. Cour- 
 tenay, in which he blamed himself, that, in his anxi- 
 ety to see his family, he had been so thoughtless as 
 to suppose his wife could be prepared during so 
 short a time. He wrote for her to have no thought 
 about taking her passage, &c. ; he would manage all 
 that ; find some well-built ship, experienced com- 
 mander, by whom he would write, and desire him to 
 call upon her, stating when his ship would be ready 
 for sea, &c.
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 177 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 " Dost thou think I care for a satire or an epigram? No: if a man will be 
 beaten with brains, he shall wear nothing handsome about him. In brief, since I 
 do propose to marry, I will think nothing to any purpose that the world can say 
 against it; and therefore never flout at me for what I have said against it: for 
 man is a giddy thing; and this is my conclusion." MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. 
 
 THE family in Milton soon commenced the task of 
 arrangements for the sale of furniture, and prepara- 
 tion of every thing necessary for a voyage. Mrs. 
 Harcourt and Margaret looked forward, with great 
 dread, to a separation from their friends ; the ad- 
 vanced age of the former making it very improbable 
 she should ever see them again. 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay's attachment to both was very 
 strong : so deep, indeed, was her reverence for Mrs. 
 Harcourt, that the bare mention of her departure 
 filled her mind with deep regret; and often did 
 Edith watch the mournful expression of her mother's 
 face when the subject was talked of: fears, which 
 she vainly strove to hide, flowed from her eyes when 
 the young people asked questions concerning the sea, 
 the Americans, &c. It was a sorrowful idea to leave
 
 178 EDITH; 
 
 her country, with all its fond associations ; the friends 
 of her early life ; the town where she had passed so 
 many happy days ; the old ivy-covered church where 
 her marriage vows were registered ; and the grave- 
 yard where her children reposed. In the desolation 
 of her spirit, there was one ray of sunshine, the 
 meeting with her husband and son : but for this, she 
 could not have borne the fatigue, as well as excite- 
 ment, through which she had to pass. Had she 
 known all that was before her, her gentle nature 
 would, indeed, have quailed at the prospect. The 
 deep shadows of the future were mercifully hidden. 
 
 At Christmas, Arthur was often in the family- 
 circle. His vacation at Cambridge would last some 
 time, and he devoted as much of it as possible to 
 Edith. What changes had occurred to the affianced 
 pair ! and how soon they were to separate ! But, 
 whenever this subject became too serious in its cha- 
 racter, when anticipations otherwise than cheerful 
 presented themselves, Edith would point to the 
 diamond on her finger, and hush his voice at once. 
 
 One morning, while he was assisting her to pack 
 her drawing-case, Jenny brought him a letter. He 
 opened it hastily, knowing it was Mary's hand- 
 writing. He seemed, at first, very much excited 
 and agitated, and then burst into an immoderate fit 
 of laughter. " I do believe, Edith," he at last said, 
 " my father is mad, and other people too, strange 
 subject, you must think, for merriment. Read this
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 179 
 
 letter, while I go into the town to order my horse ; 
 for I must be off within an hour." 
 
 " GLENDALE, Dec. 27, 18 . 
 
 " DEAREST ARTHUR, I feel in such a state of feverish excite- 
 ment, I can hardly guide my pen ; but I write by papa's orders. 
 
 " You know he has been in London for some days. No one was 
 at home but Matilda and I on Christmas Day. You, dear brother, 
 were happy ; and I have not a word to say about loneliness. This 
 morning, I was seated in the library, when I was startled by the 
 noise of carriage-wheels, which stopped at the hall-door. I ran 
 to see who or what was to be seen, when the carriage-door was 
 opened : my father stepped out, handing a lady. They entered 
 the western drawing-room, where, fortunately, was a large fire. I 
 stepped forward, when papa took my hand, leading me to the 
 lady, saying, ' Mary, allow me to present to you Mrs. Leslie, my 
 unfe.' I was perfectly thunder-struck. Not knowing what to do, 
 at length I stammered out, ' Papa, why was I not prepared for 
 this event ? ' I trembled like an aspen-leaf. I know my color 
 all left my cheeks. We stood looking at each other, until Mrs. 
 Leslie broke the silence by saying, in a very pleasant tone, 
 
 " ' I trust I may be welcome, though unexpected.' 
 
 " ' Welcome ' ! To have my dear mamma's place filled by a 
 stranger, and to talk of welcome ! What sort of woman can she 
 be thus to enter a family ? I could only say, ' I -will do all in 
 my power, madam, to evince my respect' 
 
 " ' Where is Arthur ? ' inquired your father. ' Is not Matilda 
 at home ? ' 
 
 " Arthur is in Milton,' I said ; (how he scowled !) ' Matilda is 
 up stairs.' 
 
 " Do you think he will venture to talk of ' love-passages,' scenes, 
 romance, &c. ? I wonder if they are all nonsense now ? It 
 seems they have been married several days. Papa wishes you to 
 come home immediately, to pay your respects to Mrs. Leslie (I 
 never will call her mother, and I am sure you will not). 
 
 " She is a very fashionable-looking woman ; rather handsome ;
 
 180 EDITH ; 
 
 somewhat haughty, I suspect. Oh, dear, dear ! how am I to sup- 
 port this change ? Why was papa so reserved ? Was there not 
 a degree of deception about the whole business, commencing with 
 the new furniture ? I would not, Arthur, be disrespectful ; but I 
 cannot help the inquiry. And then, to think of papa, at fifty, 
 with a new wife, and he so often talking of your folly in being in 
 love ! When you arrive at this sentence, how you will laugh ! 
 Can you help making the contrast ? Pray, come home immedi- 
 ately. Give my love to dear Edith ; yes, a thousand loves, 
 some to Mrs. Courtenay and the two darling girls. 
 
 " Your affectionate MARY. 
 
 "P.S. The servants are half crazy, talking so noisily, 'Mas- 
 ter has brought home a wife ! ' " 
 
 Arthur, when he re-entered the house, had parted 
 with his merriment. The strangeness of his father's 
 proceedings admitted, he thought, of very little ex- 
 cuse. He had a perfect right to marry again, if he 
 wished. Why all this mystery ? It was almost in- 
 sulting to children who were grown up. But he 
 put away his uncomfortable feelings, and hastened to 
 say good-by to Edith. " I shall hear from you or 
 see you again soon, Arthur ? " 
 
 "No, no! I am, you know, never in a hurry 
 either to write or to come. What a question, Edith ! 
 I am half tempted to scold. But good-by, my own, 
 shall I say ? " And he was on his way to Glendale 
 in another minute. 
 
 The preparations for leaving England went steadily 
 on. The furniture was sold, and the family at Mrs. 
 Harcourt's, at her urgent request, until letters could 
 arrive from Mr. Courtenay naming the ship in which
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 181 
 
 they were to embark. Before the house was closed, 
 Mrs. Courtenay had a conversation with Jenny, 
 wherein she learned her desire to accompany her to 
 America. When Mrs. Courtenay represented to her 
 the difference of her present situation from what it 
 had been when she first lived with her, the true nobi- 
 lity of her character shone forth. " O madam ! " she 
 replied, " I enjoyed many privileges, when you were 
 in prosperity, far beyond my station. I will not 
 leave you in adversity. I will follow your fortunes 
 to the end, let them be what they may. I want to 
 see my dear master ; be with the young ladies : this 
 will be happiness enough to me. Do not speak to 
 me about wages ; please, ma'am, don't ! " These me- 
 morable words from a faithful servant spoke volumes 
 for the disinterestedness which, disregarding all pe- 
 cuniary advantages, was willing to sacrifice love of 
 country and friends to go to a distant land, under a 
 change of circumstances such as she had never anti- 
 cipated. 
 
 To Edith, the arrangements with Jenny gave par- 
 ticular pleasure, because she knew how much her 
 services would be needed at sea, services such as 
 no one could so well perform for her mother; and, 
 then, the two girls were so dependent on her, no 
 stranger, however capable, could have supplied her 
 place. 
 
 There were times when, as we have before sug- 
 gested, Jenny felt her power, and perhaps exercised 
 it in household regulations, feeling she knew best 
 
 16
 
 EDITH ; 
 
 what ought to be done ; but this love of power was 
 never exhibited either in impertinent observations 
 or replies. Her demeanor was at all times respect- 
 ful to Mrs. Courtenay and Edith. Even reproofs for 
 her belief in signs and omens seldom elicited any 
 thing beyond wonder that people were such unbe- 
 lievers ; and, from the fact that two or three events 
 had occurred as she predicted, she watched the times 
 and the seasons, like a second Norna of the Fitful 
 Head.
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 183 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 " Not even savage Nature's sternest child, 
 'Mid tangled forests born or deserts wild, 
 But he has something felt, when doomed to part, 
 The last sad hopeless sinking of the heart ! 
 Nor lives there one who has not still deferred, 
 And would not longer shun, to speak that word: 
 The grave of love, and dear affection's knell, 
 Are found, alas! too oft in that farewell." 
 
 THERE is an old adage which says, " It is always 
 the darkest just before daylight." Something of 
 this truth was seen one week in Milton. Letters 
 came from Mr. Courtenay, handed by Capt. Henly, 
 of the ship " Galatea," about the middle of January. 
 He announced his ship was in the Thames, with a 
 pilot bound to London, where she would probably 
 be about five weeks, fitting for her homeward pas- 
 sage ; at the end of which time, he should stop in 
 Gravesend to take his passengers, when Mrs. Cour- 
 tenay and family must be ready to go on board. No 
 one had, until this gentleman's appearance, realized, 
 in full force, that a separation was indeed at hand. 
 Mrs. Harcjourt's grief was severe : there was no out- 
 pourings of lamentation ; but in her pale face and
 
 184 EDITH ; 
 
 quiet demeanor was exhibited a holy submission to 
 the will of " Him who doeth all things well." 
 
 The shock to Edith was very great. Her heart 
 was too full to give utterance to her feelings in 
 speech. She resolutely exercised all the discipline 
 of which her strong mind was capable. The ring, 
 talismanic as she had believed it, had little power 
 now to allay her grief as she thought of leaving 
 England. But she lifted up her voice in prayer for 
 firmness to bear all before her ; and the firmness was 
 given. In a few days, she saw Arthur again ; for 
 his mind was too unsettled for much study. He 
 came unexpectedly, with a request to Edith, from his 
 father and Mrs. Leslie, to go for one or two days to 
 Glendale. She was delighted at this evidence of 
 pleasant feeling, and hastened her little preparations. 
 
 Arthur drove her in a chaise ; and, just as they 
 reached the rustic bridge, he took from his coat- 
 pocket a small case, which, on opening, she saw con- 
 tained a beautiful miniature of himself, and one of 
 his soft brown curls. She turned pale, then deep 
 crimson. Her chest heaved with the fulness of her 
 emotion ; and, in a tumult of feeling she could not 
 restrain, she pressed her lips on the insensible re- 
 semblance of her betrothed. He laughed at her 
 enthusiasm, as he called it, but soothed her into 
 composure by his gentle and respectful tenderness, 
 saying, 
 
 "Edith, dearest! the hour of our separation is 
 approaching. You must sit for your picture too,
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 185 
 
 and give me a jetty ringlet. I will send the same 
 artist to you next week." 
 
 By this time they had reached the house. She 
 alighted from the chaise, and was soon in Mary's 
 embrace, and then conducted to the parlor. Mr. 
 and Mrs. Leslie rose to receive her. Mr. Leslie 
 presented her to his wife, saying, "Allow me to 
 introduce to you my son's future wife, my daugh- 
 ter. Edith, my dear, as such I have sent for you, 
 as such I acknowledge you." 
 
 "Father! my dear father!" exclaimed Arthur, 
 " how can I sufficiently thank you for this fulfilment 
 of my wishes, my hopes ? " He could say no more : 
 his words died on his lips. Such unexpected happi- 
 ness was more than his firmness could support. He 
 turned to a window ; while Mr. Leslie, imprinting 
 a kiss on Edith's brow, placed her between himself 
 and his wife, on a sofa. What a revulsion of feeling 
 for all ! the acknowledged affianced of Arthur ! 
 Edith seemed to be lightened of half her anxieties ; 
 the future, in one moment, all brightness. 
 
 The day had passed swiftly and cheerfully to all 
 at Glendale. Mr. Leslie had laid aside his reserve 
 and dignified coldness, and Mrs. Leslie appeared 
 desirous to please. 
 
 When the hour of retiring arrived, the two young 
 friends went to Mary's apartment, where a blazing 
 fire in the grate cast a ruddy glow over the furni- 
 ture, lighting it up so brightly, that they seated 
 themselves as if for a long conversation. Edith, 
 
 16*
 
 186 EDITH ; 
 
 while looking round the comfortable chamber, con- 
 trasted the state-room of a merchant-ship : its narrow 
 limits and sundry inconveniences rose like a spectre 
 before her vivid imagination ; but, unwilling to cloud 
 her friend's mind, she turned her eyes to the wall, say- 
 ing, " How glad I am your mamma's picture is here ! 
 A daughter's apartment seems the holiest spot for it. 
 How I wish I had a portrait of either or both my 
 parents ! But I have something so valuable, Mary, 
 I ought to be contented." And she exhibited the 
 beautiful miniature of Arthur, that classical head, 
 the noble features, and rich brown curls, so like, 
 and so exquisitely painted. They both looked at it 
 so long and intently, that Mary at last said, laugh- 
 ingly, <f Edith, the candles and your bright eyes 
 together will fade the colors : do shut it up ! " 
 
 Edith inquired why Mr. Leslie had so suddenly 
 changed his deportment to her. Why did he call 
 her his future daughter, &c. ? Mary smiled, and then 
 said, " Has not Arthur told you his adventure with 
 the dog ? " 
 
 " No," replied Edith ; " nor do I know to what 
 you allude." 
 
 Mary then informed her, that, for several days 
 during the past week, one of Arthur's dogs had ap- 
 peared restless and uneasy, refusing at intervals to 
 drink, and at times uttering low growls, as if in 
 pain. He was Ordered to be secured in his kennel, 
 until some more decided evidence of hydrophobia 
 appeared.
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 187 
 
 " On Wednesday morning, Arthur took his gun, 
 and went into the woods in search of game. While 
 he was sauntering along, he was suddenly startled 
 by loud cries. He glanced in the direction of the 
 bridge, then towards the woods, uncertain from 
 whence the sound proceeded. The cries were re- 
 newed. He sprang forward, and, through the open- 
 ing in the shrubbery, beheld Mrs. Leslie, running 
 with the speed of lightning, pursued by the dog, 
 whose eyes glared wildly, and who was evidently in 
 the act of springing at his victim. 
 
 " With the presence of mind which characterizes 
 every action, Arthur," she continued, " said in gentle 
 tones, * Leo ! Leo ! ' The infuriated animal paused. 
 Not a moment was to be lost. Arthur levelled his 
 gun, his aim was unerring, and Leo instantly 
 fell dead. Mrs. Leslie shrieked frantically, uncon- 
 scious, as she afterwards said, of my brother's pre- 
 sence, until she heard the report of the gun. The 
 dog was so near her, that there was a fearful chance 
 of her being shot. She was completely exhausted 
 by terror and the rapidity of her flight. Arthur 
 w r as very affectionately attentive to her. He took off 
 his coat, and, placing it on the turf, seated her, while 
 he went to the little waterfall we have so often ad- 
 mired, brought water in his hunting-cap, bathed her 
 temples and hands until she was sufficiently calm to 
 be able to reach the house. Her gratitude was ex- 
 pressed in the warmest terms for Arthur's prompt 
 and heroic preservation of her from the dog, about
 
 188 EDITH; 
 
 whose madness there could be no doubt, as he must 
 have snapped his chain in a paroxysm, and fled to- 
 wards the woods, probably in pursuit of his master. 
 Mrs. Leslie considers Arthur's sudden appearance as 
 Heaven-directed ; for she felt her strength yielding 
 to the agitation of her mind, and thought, in one 
 minute more, she must have fallen to the earth. 
 
 " You may naturally suppose, dear Edith, we were 
 all very, happy in the safety of Mrs. Leslie. I think 
 Arthur risked much in doing as he did. Had he 
 been a less experienced marksman, he had wounded, 
 if not killed her ; for Leo touched her dress with 
 his fore-paws." 
 
 Edith was much excited by this narration, and 
 longed to go down stairs to express to both her 
 friends her congratulations : but Mary advised her 
 against it, as Mrs. Leslie had requested the affair 
 might not be mentioned ; for her nerves had not 
 wholly recovered from the shock. 
 
 "And now, Edith, I must go on to say,, that 
 I think this incident has increased in my father, in a 
 tenfold degree, the value of Arthur. He has noticed, 
 for some time, the anxious look my brother has 
 worn ; and, though there has been no diminution of 
 respectful tenderness in his manner towards his 
 father, a superficial observer must have noticed the 
 constraint of all his actions ; and, since we have 
 learned your decision to accompany Mrs. Courtenay 
 to the United States, we have all discussed the disin- 
 terestedness of your conduct.
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 189 
 
 " I have no doubt my father now views Arthur's 
 attachment to you as something more than a boyish 
 fancy, and that he planned with Mrs. Leslie the scene 
 of to-day ; in, addition to which, the good sense and 
 gentlemanly respect Arthur exhibited in his deport- 
 ment towards his step-mother, on his introduction, 
 softened his father's heart : for," she continued, 
 " when he entered the house, though looking very 
 pale, he advanced affectionately towards her, and, 
 taking one of her hands in both of his, clasped it 
 very cordially, and, kissing it, said, ' I know, ma- 
 dam, you will do all for the happiness of my father 
 and his family, that, as rational beings, we have any 
 right to expect.' She seemed touched by his man- 
 ner, so different from mine, and made a very gra- 
 cious reply. Then Arthur handed her into the 
 dining-room, led her to my seat at the head of 
 the table. I know how hard he tried to appear 
 calm. The tears were in my eyes. Since that 
 day's ordeal, every thing has gone very smoothly. 
 I have very little care. Mrs. Leslie does not inter- 
 fere with my pursuits ; and, were it not for the dread 
 of her fashionable London friends, I should be satis- 
 fied. But I know she will fill the house with com- 
 pany very soon ; for she already calls it dull here." 
 
 " Oh," said Edith, " how happy every one ought 
 to be here ! I know you, dear Mary, will be happy 
 with Matilda and Arthur. Will you not, by every 
 attention, be to him what I so gladly would be ? He 
 will feel my absence."
 
 190 EDITH ; 
 
 " Yes," replied Mary : " I will exert myself to the 
 utmost for his sake, your sake, Edith ; and, but for that 
 hateful voyage to America, you might be happy also." 
 
 " Do not call any thing hateful when duty points 
 the way. Let what may occur, I shall never have a 
 regret : indeed, I can bear any thing, under the con- 
 viction that I act from a sense of right. There are 
 melancholy scenes before me, I doubt not ; they may 
 require struggles to maintain my fortitude : but, 
 Mary, I shall preserve it ; because I shall, I do already, 
 ask it, where no petition is refused. Good-night, 
 dearest ! " And the friends separated. 
 
 Edith's mind had been so agitated by the various 
 events of the last few hours, she slept but little. The 
 night was one of unusual stillness : not a sound dis- 
 turbed the tranquillity; even Leo's voice was now 
 hushed in a long, long sleep. She watched the first 
 streak of rosy light in the eastern horizon with such 
 confusion in her head as hardly to realize whether 
 she was not already at sea. The sun soon began to 
 brighten the sky; when she hastily dressed, and 
 awaited the summons to breakfast, as an incident to 
 break in upon the tedium of many sleepless hours. 
 
 Soon after breakfast, she begged Mrs. Leslie to 
 receive her congratulations on having escaped un- 
 harmed from a painful scene, " the details of which," 
 she said, " Mary had given her the previous even- 
 ing. I am sure, my dear madam, you will forgive 
 me for not obeying your wishes for silence on this 
 affair ; and may I not hope this act of Arthur's will
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 191 
 
 endear him to you, and add one more link to the 
 chain which must bind him to you ? He is so disin- 
 terested, so wholly forgetful of self, when he can 
 serve another ! " 
 
 " Yes," replied Mrs. Leslie : " I cannot feel too 
 much for this exemplary young man ; and there may 
 be another link, one for your sweet self, dear 
 Edith. What shall I say to her who is ready to 
 resign so much of her happiness to accompany her 
 mother to a foreign land ? " 
 
 " Say of her, that the mother deserves all, and 
 more than all, the adopted child can do for her ; for 
 whatever good there may be in her she owes to that 
 mother's tender care and beautiful example." 
 
 As there were yet many things to be accomplished, 
 Edith returned early to Mrs. Harcourt's. She took 
 leave of Mr. and Mrs. Leslie. Mary she was to see 
 again, and probably Matilda. Her heart was light- 
 ened of much of its grief since Mr. Leslie had 
 acknowledged her as Arthur's future wife. His 
 former treatment had affected her feelings very 
 deeply, though she had never complained. She was 
 glad this cloud had swept by, leaving glimpses of the 
 " blue serene " beyond. 
 
 On the way to Milton, Edith asked Arthur why 
 he had not informed her of the adventure with the 
 dog. 
 
 " Because," he replied, " Mrs. Leslie requested to 
 have as little as possible said about it. I took it for 
 granted, Mary would tell you ; and, above all, I do
 
 192 EDITH; 
 
 not like to be the hero of my own story. The affair 
 was so sudden, the death of poor Leo so instanta- 
 neous, I hardly remember with any degree of distinct- 
 ness what did happen. I only know I was terrified 
 lest the dog should spring on Mrs. Leslie ; in which 
 case, I should not have dared to fire, there were so 
 many chances of my shooting her. In almost an 
 agony of feeling, I pulled the trigger ; and, when I 
 found she was safe, I thanked God most fervently 
 that I had been spared the awful responsibility in- 
 volved by taking aim with so little deliberation." 
 
 The artist came to take Edith's miniature, which 
 proved as successful as Arthur's. She had deter- 
 mined upon the manner of settling the pecuniary 
 part. She had sold her paintings in London, and, 
 if not for their full value, had been so far remune- 
 rated as to enable her to arrange this little 'matter. 
 Accordingly, she insisted on doing it; and, when 
 sent to her lover, she told him it was now her gift, 
 which it could not otherwise have been. He knew 
 not, until a long time afterwards, how the affair was 
 adjusted. 
 
 A letter soon arrived from Capt. Henly, announ- 
 cing the 28th of February as his appointed day for 
 sailing. The ship, he wrote, " would be down the 
 Thames on the morning of that day, when he hoped 
 all would be in readiness." There were but few 
 days to intervene. It would be useless to attempt 
 describing the feelings of Mrs. Courtenay, Mrs. Har- 
 court, or the younger members of the family : a veil
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 193 
 
 must be thrown over them. Mary Leslie and Ma- 
 tilda said farewell, with many tears, sobs, and with 
 reserved promises of writing often. 
 
 The morning of the 28th dawned amid clouds 
 and a drizzly rain ; but, as the wind was fair, the cap- 
 tain determined to sail. Arthur had arrived in 
 Milton on the 27th, and had passed the day chiefly in 
 Edith's society, using every effort to cheer her droop- 
 ing spirits. 
 
 She arose on the sad morning with an intolerable 
 weight at her heart, which none can describe, though 
 all may imagine. 
 
 The breakfast was untasted, even by the children ; 
 for Margaret Granville exercised very little control 
 over her feelings, and her sorrow very naturally 
 affected them. 
 
 Mrs. Harcourt and Mrs. Courtenay were pale and 
 silent. We will not invade the sacredness of their 
 parting interview : they hardly hoped to meet again 
 on earth. 
 
 Edith left the breakfast-room, and went to the 
 parlor, where, folding her arms on the table, and lay- 
 ing her head upon them, she gave way to an uncon- v 
 trollable burst of grief. The sorrow-stricken girl 
 had exercised all the firmness she possessed, even to 
 the present moment. Nature demanded relief, and 
 she yielded to her feelings. Arthur entered the 
 room, with a countenance deadly pale, but with a 
 firm step. He approached her with great tenderness. 
 " Edith ! " he said, in a voice hollow and tremulous 
 
 17
 
 194 EDITH; 
 
 from emotion, " Edith, dearest ! speak to me, and try 
 to command yourself, or I shall feel I have not done 
 my duty in allowing you to go to America." 
 
 He bent one knee on the ground, and, gently 
 raising her head from the table, supported it on his 
 shoulder. He bowed his face, reverently it may be 
 said, over her glossy ringlets, as they fell on his 
 breast, and clasped her fondly in his arms. Tears 
 of bitterness, of intense suffering, were on the droop- 
 ing head. Never, until this moment, had he realized 
 how dear she was to him. Superior to all romantic 
 display of attachment, exhibited in the hackneyed 
 expressions of " never-dying love," " eternal con- 
 stancy," his soul was in his words as he whispered, 
 " Edith ! you are mine, by every sacred feeling, by 
 the approval of friends, by the sanction of Heaven. 
 Distance, absence, separation, will affect no change, 
 except to strengthen our ties. You go in the strict 
 performance of duty : there seemed no other path 
 for you. I will cheerfully resign you until the time 
 when I can claim you as my wife. I will hasten that 
 time by devotion to my studies, and exertions to 
 gain a suitable maintenance for you." 
 
 She raised her dark eyes to his face, and saying, 
 solemnly, " I will strive to prove myself worthy of 
 your affection, of you," rose from her seat, and com- 
 menced preparations for going on board. He threw 
 her cloak over her, started as the captain's voice 
 in the hall sounded " Trunks all on board ! " and, 
 placing her arm in his, they entered the room to take
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 195 
 
 leave of Mrs. Harcourt and Margaret. Jenny and 
 the two girls were already in the hall. 
 
 "Why prolong the scene ? The carriage was wait- 
 ing to convey them to Gravesend, about a mile, where 
 they were to embark. 
 
 Notwithstanding the rain, a number of the poorer 
 class of people had assembled on the quay to catch a 
 parting glance of their benevolent friends. The boat 
 was waiting : all stepped on board, and, in a few 
 minutes, were alongside the " Galatea." The clouds 
 had partially cleared, and glimpses of sunlight were 
 occasionally seen. The deck of the ship was so slip- 
 pery and wet as hardly to allow foothold. 
 
 The moment had arrived for the passengers' friends 
 to go on shore. Arthur was the last to leave. He 
 stood in the stern, his head uncovered : the faint 
 glimmer of sunlight played around his hair, as the 
 curls stirred in the breeze ; and, as the ship swung 
 round with the ebb tide, he waved his hat, till he 
 was soon too near the shore to be recognized. 
 
 Slowly the ship's topsails were hoisted, and sheeted 
 home j the windlass was manned ; and, simultaneous 
 with the " Heave yo ! heave, heave, men ! " of the 
 sailors, the heavy flapping of the sails, and the rat- 
 tling of ropes, was heard the rough voice of the pilot, 
 " Run up the jibs there ! " In a moment, the un- 
 chained vessel was seen moving along on her course. 
 
 Unaccustomed to such sounds, and to so much 
 confusion, poor Mrs. Courtenay was half-stunned ; 
 and turning with tearful eyes towards Tilbury Fort,
 
 I 
 
 196 EDITH; 
 
 for a long, last look, she, with her family, prepared 
 to go below. All who have been at sea, who have 
 left home, kindred, friends, can realize what a solemn 
 hour it was. No one spoke. Articulation was denied 
 Edith : she tried to utter a few words to her mother ; 
 but they died on her lips. She kept her eyes fixed 
 on the retreating shore until they were so blinded by 
 tears, all was misty and shadowy as the destiny 
 before her. They passed down the gangway into 
 the cabin.
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 197 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 ' Adieu ! adieu ! My native land 
 
 Fades o ? er the waters blue : 
 The night-wind sighs, the breakers roar, 
 
 And shrieks the wild sea-mew. 
 Yon sun, that sets upon the sea, 
 
 We follow in his night : 
 Farewell, awhile, to him and thee. 
 
 My native land, ' Good-night! ' " 
 
 THEY were on the sea, the lonely wife, with her 
 children ; the noble girl, whose self-sacrificing and 
 grateful nature had led her to resign the dearest 
 object of her affections, and traverse an ocean to a 
 foreign land, that she might cheer and comfort her 
 adopted parent in her hours of adversity and trial. 
 Her well-balanced mind had never shrunk from duty ; 
 and, calling into action all the energies of her cha- 
 racter, she committed herself to " Him who spread- 
 eth out the heavens, and ruleth the raging of the 
 sea ; " then calmly took her mother's hand, and, pass- 
 ing it under her arm, conducted her to her state- 
 room, and, ere the pilot left, had written a few lines 
 to Arthur and Mrs. Harcourt, assuring them all were 
 well, and as cheerful as they could be after the try- 
 ing scenes of the morning. 
 
 17*
 
 198 EDITH; 
 
 There were but few passengers, and those not 
 very interesting people. Of course, no great de- 
 mands were made upon our little party for their 
 sakes. 
 
 Twenty days passed on, as days usually do at sea, 
 in vain efforts to be happy in the midst of noise, 
 that longing for rest, if only for one hour ; for a pause 
 from the ceaseless motion of the ship ; the alternate 
 rolling, pitching, heaving ; and, at times, seeming to 
 flounder among the waves. 
 
 Many discomforts attended the passage, which were 
 hard to be endured. At one time, serious fears of a 
 mutiny, so strong a feeling of disaffection, appeared 
 among the sailors ; at another, a heavy sea was 
 shipped, which swept from the deck much of the 
 live-stock, and came dashing into the cabin : one of 
 the deadlights was knocked in by it ; and, for some 
 time, the second mate and the steward were unable 
 to fit in another, to keep out the tumultuous waves. 
 The little girls, however, enjoyed much in fine 
 weather. They walked, with their mother and 
 Edith, on the quarter-deck ; sat on the hen-coops, 
 to talk with the poultry, or, leaning over the taff- 
 rail, watched the waves or the dolphins : the latter 
 they often saw on the " Banks." Among the few 
 pleasant scenes on shipboard, was the sight of the 
 full moon, as it rose, one evening, from the sea. It 
 was the first time Edith had seen so grand and beau- 
 tiful a scene. She was perfectly delighted, and stood 
 leaning over the ship's side, gazing with holy admi-
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 199 
 
 ration on the full orb which slowly appeared from 
 the depths of ocean. Silent and awe-struck at the 
 splendor of the view, she watched the long line of 
 light, the sea spreading out in every direction, bound, 
 less in extent, and almost as smooth as a mirror ; a 
 few little waves quietly dashing the ship's sides as 
 she gently sped on her way. The sailors were 
 lounging on the deck, in the evening- watch ; the 
 helmsman was whistling the air of " Black-eyed 
 Susan ; " while the chief officer paced the quarter- 
 deck, puffing his cigar. The tranquillity, so per- 
 fectly in unison with Edith's feelings, was most 
 soothing. Her thoughts were beyond the sea: her 
 lips murmured the name of Arthur, but in tones too 
 low to reach any human ear. She turned her eyes 
 from the ocean to the star-spangled heavens, and felt 
 there she was heard, there her petitions for his happi- 
 ness were registered. Her meditations were inter- 
 rupted by the sudden appearance of the captain, who 
 good-humoredly said, " Miss Dacres, you are just the 
 one to go to sea, no sickness, and so pleased 
 always to look about and enjoy every thing." 
 
 " I do enjoy some few things ; and, if Mr. Cour- 
 tenay were only here, I should be much more happy : 
 but poor mamma is so sad without him ! " 
 
 " Well," replied the kind-hearted man, " in a fort- 
 night, I hope, you will all be together." "All?" 
 Edith internally murmured. "All? No, not all! " 
 She found the night-air was becoming too cold ; and, 
 at that moment, Jenny's voice sounded from the
 
 200 EDITH; 
 
 gangway, "Miss Edith, your mamma fears you are 
 imprudent, and will take cold : she begs you to 
 come below." 
 
 The next morning, a beautiful ship was seen in 
 the distance. The wind was very fresh, what sail- 
 ors call a stiff breeze. In a short time, however, the 
 captain of the "Galatea" was able to speak her; 
 learned she was from Boston, bound to Dublin ; but 
 did not think the name of his ship could be heard. 
 Signals were exchanged : they passed on. 
 
 What had been Mrs. Courtenay's feelings had she 
 known her husband and son were passengers in that 
 ship? that, at the very time her eyes were gazing 
 on her, as she swiftly " winged her way," his own, 
 and those of her son, were unconsciously directed 
 towards the same object, which contained all that 
 was dear to him in the universe ? They were mer- 
 cifully spared an aggravation of feeling which it 
 would have required almost superhuman fortitude 
 to have borne. Not to have met for so long a time, 
 and to have passed each other on the ocean ! Too, 
 too sad ! 
 
 The day of the 7th of April closed with heavy 
 clouds. The wind roared in the rigging, a dis- 
 mally prophetic sound. The captain made all pre- 
 paration for an approaching storm : he frequently 
 entered the cabin, announcing the state of the wea- 
 ther, evidently trying to maintain his cheerfulness. 
 As night approached, the wind blew violently, as
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 201 
 
 might be well understood, by those below, from the 
 rolling of the ship, and the tumult on deck. 
 
 The first hours of the night dragged wearily oh. 
 Mrs. Courtenay refused to go to her berth ; and 
 Edith, with devoted tenderness, remained by her 
 side, watching every change in her face, and making 
 all efforts in her power to keep up her spirits. 
 
 The weather had been hazy for many days ; and 
 no observation had, of course, been taken : but 
 Capt. Henly thought he had seen Boston Light the 
 evening of the 6th, at a time when the mist had 
 partially cleared. Then, as the wind increased, he 
 stood out to sea, dreading any attempt to run in with 
 a sky so threatening. By daylight, on the 8th, the 
 snow fell thick and fast. The ship was lying-to, 
 under close-reefed topsails, but drifting, two miles 
 an hour, no one knew whither. The danger was of 
 Scituate Rocks or Nantasket Beach. 
 
 About eight o'clock, A.M., Edith entered the chil- 
 dren's state-room, urging them to remain quietly in 
 their berths, as they would find it difficult to stand. 
 She reported them to their mother as wholly uncon- 
 scious of danger. 
 
 The storm soon became appalling. The howling 
 of the wind ; the straining of the masts ; the roar- 
 ing of the sea, as it lashed the ship's sides or dashed 
 over the bulwarks, were terrific. 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay and Jenny tried to steady them- 
 selves by grasping a settee securely stanchioned ; 
 the former, her countenance ghastly pale, looking
 
 EDITH; 
 
 eagerly towards Capt. Henly, as he stood for a 
 minute before the grate, warming his hands, and 
 shaking the snow from his cap. 
 
 Edith had preserved her presence of mind, re- 
 membering all that was required of her ; but now, 
 startled by the expression of the captain's face, she 
 inquired, " What is the matter ? Are we in danger 
 of shipwreck, and so near our port ? " " There is 
 always danger," he answered, " in a snow-storm on 
 this coast ; but I think we shall weather the gale." 
 
 At that moment, the chief mate's voice was heard 
 in the companion-way, calling, " Captain ! " " Ay, 
 ay ! " And, in a second, he was on deck. 
 
 Another moment, and a heavy sea struck the ship, 
 and came running down the gangway into the cabin, 
 rolling and surging over trunks and other things in 
 the way. The commotion was fearful. All were 
 bewildered by this unexpected rush of water. The 
 passengers were dashed against the berths, or sent, 
 staggering, on to the settees, &c. The worst was 
 over. The storm appeared to lull, at intervals, long 
 enough to allow the passengers to speak to each 
 other. A melancholy group did the cabin present. 
 A French lady put her head out of the door of her 
 stateroom, inquiring, " Quel temps fait il aujour- 
 d'hui ? " Caroline and Marion had just entered the 
 cabin. The former answered, as she shivered before 
 the grate, " II a beaucoup neige la nuit passee, il 
 faut un vent bien froid." 
 
 " Mon Dieu ! " said Madame G. ; and the door
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 203 
 
 was closed. Most fortunately, she little realized the 
 peril. With an impulse not very common now to 
 Edith's character, she wanted to see the danger ; and, 
 passing up the companion-way, she was horror-struck 
 at the scene before her, the deck covered with 
 snow ; the air filled with it, except where the sud- 
 den gusts of wind seemed to separate the flakes, 
 admitting openings for the sea to be visible, and 
 revealing the waves, literally " mountains high." 
 Her emotion was extreme. She stood clinging to 
 the balustrade, gazing upon the fearful sight, her 
 dark hair blown in wild disorder by the gale ; and 
 her large eyes, so fearfully distended, lent to her 
 appearance the air of the presiding Genius of the 
 storm. The captain perceived her ; and, ere she 
 was prepared or aware of it, he raised her in his 
 arms, and, landing her in the cabin, sternly said, 
 " Stay below, or I shall order the companion-way 
 closed." She had just been missed. The cabin 
 was so dimly lighted, it was hardly possible to tell 
 who was present. She went to her mother, and, 
 kneeling before her, took her hands in hers, and 
 seemed to look to her for comfort in such an hour. 
 The two girls had taken alarm at the gloomy ap- 
 pearance of all around them, and hung round Jenny 
 as if for protection. Jenny had no fears. She had 
 said, repeatedly, she knew all would end well ; and, 
 indeed, others began to feel the storm was subsiding, 
 because it did occasionally pause. Thus passed the 
 day, amid the alternations of hope and fear.
 
 204 EDITH; 
 
 Towards evening, the snow ceased. Capt. Henly, 
 with something like a smile upon his face, came to 
 the table for supper. He bade all be of good 
 cheer, saying, 
 
 " I trust to-morrow may see us in a snug berth at 
 Long Wharf. The * Galatea ' has borne the gale 
 gallantly. She has lost nothing but a part of the 
 taffrail, when she shipped the heavy sea. As for 
 you, Miss Edith, you are quite a heroine. Who 
 could have expected to see a young lady dare to put 
 her head above the deck in such a storm ? " 
 
 As the night advanced, Mrs. Courtenay was 
 obliged to go to her state-room. She had borne up 
 nobly while the danger lasted, but was now entirely 
 exhausted. Edith remained by her for some time, 
 and then retired to her own berth, where she fer- 
 vently thanked God for his mercies, vouchsafed to 
 all, in preserving them amid such imminent peril. 
 About midnight, there was a cry of " Land, ho ! " 
 Then came the captain's happy announcement, that 
 the clouds were breaking, the stars appearing, and 
 the wind north-west. From state-room to state- 
 room echoed the glad tidings. All wished each 
 other joy. No one seemed to remember aught had 
 occurred to mar their happiness during the passage. 
 A feeling of deep sympathy united the passengers in 
 one common bond of union.
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 205 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 " Bright flag at yonder tapering mast ! 
 Fling out your field of azure blue ; 
 Let ' star and stripe ' be westward cast, 
 And fly as Freedom's eagle flew." 
 
 IN the morning, how changed was the scene ! Gloom 
 had disappeared from every face, and bright smiles 
 taken its place. The two girls rushed to their mo- 
 ther's embrace ; and, as she kissed their glowing 
 clieeks, they exclaimed, " Papa will give us the 
 next kiss ! " Edith shared their happiness ; for 
 she, too, longed to see Mr. Courtenay. And as to 
 her mother, she seemed wholly changed : her eyes 
 looked bright, as if sorrow had never dimmed them ; 
 and, when dressed to go on shore, Edith thought 
 she had never seen her look more lovely. The 
 " Galatea " sailed proudly among the beautiful islands 
 of Boston Harbor, some of which were partially co- 
 vered by the recent snow ; while spots of green, ap- 
 pearing in striking contrast, gave great interest to the 
 scene. The passengers all seemed delighted with 
 the uncommon beauty of these islands and the forts. 
 "When the pilot came on board, there was a feeling 
 
 18
 
 206 EDITH; 
 
 of disappointment that Mr. Courtenay was not with 
 him. As the ship had had a passage of six weeks, 
 of course much anxiety must have been felt for her 
 in the storm ; and his family were almost sure he 
 would not lose one moment of his happiness in 
 knowing they were safe. But the pilot appeared 
 not to know any thing of him. 
 
 Capt. Henly told Edith he would inquire of the 
 newspaper-editors, when they came on board, as the 
 persons most likely to give the desired information. 
 In a short time, he communicated to her the over- 
 whelming intelligence, that " Mr. Courtenay had 
 sailed for Ireland three weeks before " ! She was 
 perfectly thunderstruck. What was to be done ? 
 How could she break this unexpected and painful 
 news to her mother ? But it must be told, and im- 
 mediately ; for every moment's delay would but 
 increase her inability to perform the task. 
 
 With all possible gentleness, she announced the 
 disappointment of the eager hopes so long indulged, 
 hopes which had buoyed the family up in danger, 
 even in dismay, during the recent storm. Mrs. 
 Courteuay struggled against her adverse fate with 
 the firmness which marked her character ; but, when 
 Edith urged her to retire to her state-room until she 
 could talk again with the captain, she endeavored to 
 rise, and, in the effort, fell senseless into Edith's 
 arms. She was supported by her faithful young 
 friend and Jenny to a settee, where they applied 
 restoratives. For some time, she continued insensi-
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 207 
 
 ble. Edith became alarmed ; but life gradually re- 
 turned. Her lips quivered convulsively ; the color 
 came back to her cheeks ; and, on opening her 
 eyes, she asked, " Where is my husband ? " 
 
 Edith repeated what she had already told her, but 
 with this addition, that there were several gentlemen 
 on board, friends of Mr. Courtenay, who could pro- 
 bably throw some light on the affair. From them 
 she learned, that, by one of those vicissitudes in 
 mercantile life which frequently occur, Mr. Courte- 
 nay had been called upon to settle some business in 
 Ireland, in which his presence was very highly impor- 
 tant. He immediately wrote his wife not to embark 
 in the " Galatea ; " explained to Capt. Henly the 
 alteration in his plans. Mrs. Courtenay was to go to 
 Holyhead, where her husband would meet her and 
 the family, and all return to the United States in the 
 ship which conveyed him out. The vessel which 
 carried these letters had not reached England when 
 the " Galatea " sailed : her passage had been unusu- 
 ally long, it was presumed. Mr. Courtenay was 
 expected to return by the 1st of June. He had left 
 letters with an intimate friend, to be delivered to 
 his wife, if it should unfortunately occur that she 
 had left England ere she heard from him. He had 
 endeavored to guard against all additional anxiety to 
 what she must have already endured in their long 
 separation ; but his precautions had been in vain, as 
 the event proved. 
 
 The disappointment was indeed dreadful ; but
 
 208 EDITH; 
 
 Edith now felt the importance of having followed 
 out the path of duty, and above all did she feel the 
 approbation of her own heart in the sacrifice she had 
 made. What had been Mrs. Courtenay's situation 
 without her ? The children were still too young to 
 be able to cheer or support their mother's drooping 
 spirits ; while Edith's efficient and resolute character 
 made her equal to any emergency. 
 
 The family found many friends, who kindly urged 
 them to be their guests until they could find a per- 
 manent home ; but Mrs. Courtenay felt it was too 
 great a tax upon any one's hospitality, and went to 
 a private boarding-house, until she could subdue her 
 feelings into something like tranquillity. In the 
 midst of disappointed expectations, there was no for- 
 getfulness of the disastrous fate they had escaped. 
 The pilot had been heard to say, " Had not the wind 
 chopped round north-west as it did, probably not 
 one had been left to tell the tale of suffering on 
 board." Of course, Mrs. Courtenay was deeply 
 grateful that they had been spared. She spoke to 
 the children, with reverential gratitude, of the mer- 
 cies vouchsafed them, and was soon able to hold out 
 the hope of a re-union with their father and brother. 
 
 Not long after the arrival of the "Galatea," a 
 package was received from Mrs. Harcourt, forward- 
 ing the letters from Mr. Courtenay, which arrived 
 the very next day after the ship sailed. She had 
 learned the change of plans, and was exceedingly 
 grieved at the delay of these letters. " Of course,"
 
 OK, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 209 
 
 she wrote, " nothing could be done. My disap- 
 pointment and grief have been great at the trial 
 which awaited you on your arrival. I daily offer 
 my prayers for you and the dear ones around you. 
 I trust, ere this reaches Boston, you will be safely on 
 shore," &c. Edith, too, was happy in receiving long 
 letters from Arthur : so cheering were they to her 
 heart, that she already began to feel bright and 
 hopeful. 
 
 The spring was very backward : no signs of ve- 
 getation, except a few green spots in the fronts of 
 houses. The young people were struck with the 
 barren appearance of all around ; for, on leaving 
 England, the fields were green, the early peas quite 
 high out of the ground, &c. 
 
 Marion, who was a very observing child, with 
 very quick perceptions, inquired of Jenny where 
 the Indians were. Poor Jenny's brain was racked 
 for a reply, but at length said, " Why, they are all 
 gone west, I believe. I have heard of their going 
 towards the setting sun ; but your mamma says they 
 once lived where all these brick houses now stand : 
 this place was once a forest." The little, girl, at 
 times, seemed to feel a strong interest in the colored 
 people. She had never seen one until she came 
 to Boston, and, as she met them in the streets, 
 would whisper to Jenny, " How like satin their 
 faces are, so glossy ! and what beautiful white 
 teeth they have ! I know they are kind to little 
 girls ; for mamma says they love children very 
 
 18*
 
 10 EDITH; 
 
 much, and are always gentle towards them. You are 
 not always gentle, you know, Jenny, when I tear 
 my frocks, are you ? " Jenny answered quickly, 
 
 ""Well, if I am not, I love you, Miss Marion. 
 Sometimes you are careless, and make me a great deal 
 of work. I can't be good-natured then ; and I don't 
 believe a colored woman would, though you do 
 think them so gentle." 
 
 Marion said no more.
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 " The bridegroom may forget the bride 
 
 Was made his wedded wife yestreen ; 
 The monarch may forget the crown 
 
 That on his head an hour has been ; 
 The mother may forget the child 
 
 That smiles sae sweetly on her knee : 
 But I'll remember thee, Glencairn, 
 
 And a' that then hast done for me." 
 
 A HOUSE was found, belonging to a friend of Mr. 
 Courtenay, which seemed exactly in accordance with 
 Mrs. Courtenay's wishes. It was delightfully situ- 
 ated, in the neighborhood of Boston, near the sea, 
 commanding delightful views, and sheltered from 
 the north winds by a hill at the back. Edith's taste 
 assisted in the purchase of very plain furniture. She 
 saved her mother all the labor and care she possibly 
 could ; and, in less than a month after their arrival, 
 
 they were comfortably settled at D , and the two 
 
 girls at the academy, as day-scholars. 
 
 The neighbors were kindly attentive; for Mrs. 
 Courtenay made her house a very attractive spot. 
 It always presented a scene of cheerfulness ; and she 
 was uniformly so graceful and elegant, none could
 
 EDITH; 
 
 see her but to admire. Edith's loveliness, too, was 
 now of no common character. She was almost 
 seventeen, and so regal in her movements as to 
 arrest attention wherever she appeared. The voyage 
 had restored the rich bloom to her cheek ; and viva- 
 city now sparkled in her beautiful black eyes. She 
 was no heroine of romance, to sit and sigh inces- 
 santly at the separation from her lover. She dwelt 
 upon his valuable traits of character, his deep love 
 for her, all she owed him for his beautiful example, 
 but in a very rational manner ; and Hope whispered 
 they should meet again, never to part on earth. She 
 had duties to perform in the cultivation of her intel- 
 lectual powers ; her drawing and music occupied a 
 portion of every day ; and time passed so rapidly, 
 that she almost wondered as she saw the buds open- 
 ing, the fields looking so green, and the hepatica and 
 anemone in bloom. 
 
 On the 3d of June came the glad tidings of Mr. 
 Courtenay's arrival off Boston Light. In less than 
 twelve hours, he was with his family. 
 
 Never was joy equal to theirs. He was restored 
 to them in good health ; and Edward so grown, so 
 manly, it seemed hardly possible to realize the 
 changes which had taken place. All anxieties were 
 over. Edith was the only one not perfectly happy : 
 how could she be ? But she rejoiced greatly in see- 
 ing her mother so delighted. She strove to subdue 
 regret that she was three thousand miles from Eng- 
 land and from Arthur.
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 13 
 
 The hours flew swiftly during a summer of un- 
 equalled joy. The very trees and flowers seemed to 
 look bright as in " merrie England." There were 
 no primroses, cowslips, or jasmines ; but there were 
 fragrant roses, scarlet geraniums, flourishing in the 
 garden, which had been cultivated for Mr. Courte- 
 nay's especial admiration. Edith had letters by every 
 arrival, containing all home-news. Among other 
 things, she learned " Mrs. Leslie had crowded Glen- 
 dale with company, fashionable friends from London, 
 who had made a complete overturn of all their old 
 habits. There were continual parties, riding, driv- 
 ing, boating, &c. : no hours for thought, no places 
 for retirement. My poor father looks worn out by 
 this incessant confusion : he is much changed. How 
 different, dear Edith, from those rational and tran- 
 quil pleasures we remember, those quiet scenes 
 in the library, the cheerful horseback-rides, the strolls 
 in the woods ! Mary sighs : but I should not won- 
 der if she yet smiled ; for there is a certain Sir George 
 Thornton, who seems to find more pleasure in her 
 society than in the gayety of his cousin's (Mrs. Les- 
 lie) house. But entre nous. 
 
 " My collegiate studies will be completed at Christ- 
 mas ; and then I shall decide on my profession, which 
 I think will be the ministry. You will make so 
 good a clergyman's wife, I think you are exactly 
 fitted for it. 
 
 " When we meet, how soon we shall forget this 
 sad separation ! Remember, Edith, I am to be imme-
 
 214 EDITH; 
 
 diately informed of any change in Mr. Courtenay's 
 plans for his family. I am already growing impa- 
 tient to hear if there is any hope of your return to 
 England." 
 
 There was no prospect of it yet, as she felt her 
 position was just such as to make it proper for her 
 to remain where she was until some definite arrange- 
 ment of Mr. Courtenay's business should settle the 
 home of his family either in the United States or 
 England. She could not always suppress her feel- 
 ings ; and a tear would occasionally fall on the 
 miniature or the ring, as she turned to them for a 
 stimulus to greater effort : the talismanic power of 
 the latter was often felt. She had promised Arthur 
 to try to be cheerful ; and she scrupulously performed 
 her promise. She was becoming quite interested in 
 her new home. She liked the frank, independent 
 spirit of the Americans ; rejoiced to see so little 
 poverty and wretchedness among the lower ranks. 
 " Every rood of ground maintained its man." All 
 seemed cheerful and contented : every laborer was 
 apparently satisfied with his wages ; returned from 
 his day's work to a comfortable home, a clean hearth, 
 tidy wife and children, good, wholesome meals ; and 
 there was a certain self-reliance she had not always 
 seen in her native land, a land which she fondly 
 loved, and of which she was justly proud, even 
 when she deplored the state of things 
 
 " Whore wealth accumulates, and men decay."
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 215 
 
 Edith often walked with Caroline and Marion 
 down to the seaside ,* and, while they looked for 
 pebbles and seaweeds, she would sit on one of the 
 bold projections of rock often jutting out at sea, and 
 let her fancy travel to Glendale, to dear Mary and 
 Matilda, then to the student at Cambridge ; and as 
 the waves gently laved the beach, and broke in low 
 murmurs at her feet, she would again and again 
 breathe forth the name of Arthur ! Arthur ! Might 
 not the western breeze have wafted that sound across 
 the Atlantic? for has not the inquiry been made, 
 "Who can trace the orbit of a word?" She was 
 occasionally adventurous enough to go to the beach 
 in cloudy and gloomy mornings to watch the ocean 
 when its dark waves came rolling in, with foamy, 
 crested tops, until they dashed against the rocks, 
 and rolled heavily back to the mighty deep, to bear 
 proud navies on its bosom, ay, and perhaps to 
 ingulf some devoted ship and its helpless crew. 
 She often recalled the scene at Margate, when she 
 was with the children in the sudden storm, and 
 turned with a shudder from the memory of what she 
 then suffered. Her long walks, and disregard of 
 
 weather, astonished the female inhabitants of D , 
 
 who seldom roamed abroad unless in bright sunshine ; 
 but her gentle manners and dignified carriage soon 
 made her a general favorite. The good-natured 
 salutation given by an honest farmer always received 
 a courteous answer ; and the children of the village 
 had learned to love her so well, that they continually
 
 EDITH J 
 
 brought her bunches of wild flowers, tastefully 
 arranged, which she delighted to copy. Her cham- 
 ber was seldom without these treasures of the woods 
 and fields. Her sanctum, as she called it, was fitted 
 up at her own expense, and with that union of sim- 
 plicity and taste which speaks of true refinement of 
 mind. Her little property was, in the United States, 
 ample for all her personal requirements, and allowed 
 her the privilege of finding many comforts for the sick. 
 Her benevolence, indeed, extended to all within her 
 influence ; and her mother often smilingly said, 
 " You are becoming a ' Man of Ross.' How is it, 
 my dear Edith, your small income holds out to such 
 an extent ? " 
 
 " Because, mamma, you brought me up ; and I 
 try to be a little like you. I can remember so many 
 instances of your benevolent kindness to the poor 
 and suffering, in Milton, that my humble donations 
 appear as nothing in comparison. All I can hope is 
 the spirit in which they are bestowed will be received 
 by Him who looks into the hearts of his children." 
 
 About the middle of August, a gentleman by the 
 name of Henderson came to Mr. Courtenay's, with 
 credentials from a merchant in Smyrna, and other 
 letters from Mr. Granville in Malta. He was young, 
 accomplished, and exceedingly gentleman-like in his 
 deportment ; of course, quite a valuable addition to 
 Mr. Courtenay's family. He remained with them 
 several weeks, as the friends from whom he brought 
 letters were anxious every attention should be shown
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 
 
 him ; and Mr. Courtenay made great efforts to render 
 his house a pleasant home for him during his visit. 
 
 Mr. Henderson saw a great deal in Edith to respect 
 and admire. He seemed to derive extreme pleasure 
 from her society, aiding her in her drawing, or 
 accompanying her with his flute when she practised 
 on the piano. Their conversation was often of a 
 very intellectual character, and well calculated to 
 develop the powers of Edith's mind. It was impos- 
 sible not to be pleased with the society of so intelli- 
 gent and cultivated a person ; but, while Edith was 
 gratified by Mr. Henderson's attentions, she never 
 for a moment swerved from her allegiance to Arthur, 
 to whom she wrote the whole history of their ac- 
 quaintance, their subjects of conversation, &c. But 
 the greatest attraction in Mr. Henderson's familiar 
 discourse were his descriptions of a brief residence in 
 India, where he had formed delightful acquaintances 
 and some friendships, which he hoped yet to renew 
 in Europe. He spoke with particular eloquence of 
 a Mr. and Mrs. Talbot, from England, " around 
 whose society," he said, " there hovered such a charm, 
 that he spent his happiest hours with them. Mrs. 
 Talbot was an invalid, her health having suffered 
 from the climate. At times, she was very brilliant 
 in conversation, and as often extremely dejected. 
 There seemed to be a sorrow at her heart, even while 
 her husband, by every delicate attention, tried to 
 cheer her. Her anxiety for letters from England 
 was intense ; but she never named from whom she 
 
 19
 
 218 EDITH; 
 
 received them. Usually, after an arrival, she was more 
 cheerful ; and then," observed Mr. Henderson, " ap- 
 peared the true beauty of her intellect. She gave 
 utterance to sentiments so noble, so frank and warm- 
 hearted, that, but for the fact of her being the wife 
 of my friend, I should have found it difficult to have 
 resisted the power of her fascinations. She fre- 
 quently reverted to her early life, particularly her 
 school-days ; dwelt with great affection on her re- 
 membrance of a lovely girl, who, while at school, 
 had exercised great influence over her. Whenever 
 she spoke of her, her whole heart seemed in the sub- 
 ject ; but she refused to say where she had been 
 educated, or even to name her young friend. She 
 was very mysterious in many ways." 
 
 " You have awakened such an interest in me,'" 
 said Edith, one day, " that I really long to see this 
 lady. Shall I not charge a little to your vivid ima- 
 gination ? " 
 
 " Not at all," replied Mr. Henderson. " She is 
 actually what I represent her : but, remember, I 
 never said I thought her faultless ; for I know she 
 is not : she is, at times, very wayward, and, I think, 
 occasionally exercises too much power over Talbot, 
 who is a noble fellow, and worthy all her affection. 
 I wish, Miss Dacres, she were exactly like you." 
 
 Edith changed the conversation ; for she was very 
 reluctant to have any comparisons made, even to 
 her advantage. Mr. Henderson's deportment was 
 always marked by great delicacy ; but, of late, there
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME/ 219 
 
 had been more of tenderness than was desirable ; 
 and, to check at once all progress towards attach- 
 ment, Mr. Courtenay informed him of Edith's en- 
 gagement, and her strong affection for Mr. Leslie. 
 
 From the period of the announcement, his conduct 
 exhibited more than its accustomed respect. He 
 seemed sad, but never made any allusion to Arthur, 
 
 until the morning he left D , when, taking Edith's 
 
 hand as he bade farewell, he said, " Miss Dacres, I 
 hope we shall meet again, even if this hand should 
 be another's." ^ 
 
 " My kind wishes will attend you, Mr. Hender- 
 son. For all the pleasure and improvement I have 
 derived from your society, I thank you ; and Mr. 
 Leslie will feel equally gratified." 
 
 Mr. Henderson's departure left a void in the fa- 
 mily-circle of the Courtenays. Living, as they did, 
 in retirement, it was most natural so elegant a man 
 should have made a very pleasant impression. For 
 a day or two, Edith's drawing was full of faults ; 
 her music was less animated. She missed the sti- 
 mulus to exertion her new friend had given by his 
 judicious praise ; but, above all, she regretted not 
 having inquired further concerning Mrs. Talbot, 
 about whom there hovered such a charm. Now it 
 was too late : she should, in all probability, never 
 see Mr. Henderson again. He was to visit the South- 
 ern States, and then return to Smyrna. The lovely 
 Mrs. Talbot would, in time, fade from her memory. 
 
 Soon after Mr. Henderson's departure, Edith was
 
 220 EDITH; 
 
 returning from a morning walk, when, in passing a 
 cottage near her home, she observed a man pacing 
 slowly up and down before the door, as if extremely 
 debilitated. He had been noticed by her a day or 
 two previous, but then appeared anxious, as she 
 thought, to escape observation. This morning, how- 
 ever, as she approached him, he paused, and touched 
 his hat, when she recognized the occupant of the 
 cottage. There was something attractive in his pale 
 face and attenuated frame ; and Edith, after cour- 
 teously returning his salutation, ventured to address 
 him. 
 
 " I am sorry, Mr. Hale, to notice your feeble state 
 of health. Have you been long ill ? " 
 
 " Yes," he replied, sorrowfully. " Several weeks 
 since, I had hemorrhage of the lungs ; and it is only 
 within a day or two I have been allowed to take the 
 air. I have seen you pass my windows, Miss Dacres, 
 and have watched your firm step, so different from 
 mine now." He stopped, as if his feelings were too 
 painful to proceed. 
 
 To divert his attention from his illness, Edith said, 
 " How do you amuse your mind while obliged to be 
 so much in the house ? " 
 
 He told her he had, until recently, been able to 
 read, his neighbors having kindly lent him books ; 
 but, owing to an affection of his eyes, he had been 
 obliged to relinquish this enjoyment ; " and my 
 wife," he added, " has too much work to do, to find 
 any time to read to me."
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 
 
 " How should you like to have me call at your 
 house every day, and read to you for an hour ? " in- 
 quired the kind-hearted girl. 
 
 " Like it 1 " he eagerly replied, as the tears glis- 
 tened in his eyes, and a light spread over his wan 
 features ; " it would make me so happy ! " 
 
 Edith smiled benevolently, and said, 
 
 " Well, then, I will try the experiment to-morrow 
 morning, at ten o'clock. And now, I will say good- 
 by, as I fear you have already stood too long." 
 
 She kept her promise ; and, as the morning was 
 chilly with an east wind, she found the invalid less 
 well. He was in his arm-chair, carefully wrapped 
 in a great-coat, as these searching winds, all know, 
 penetrate every part of a house. The room wore 
 an air of extreme neatness, though bearing evidence 
 of very scanty means. In one of the windows were 
 two flower-pots, containing a scarlet geranium and 
 rosebush, both appearing as if carefully tended, and 
 indicating some degree of refinement in the inhabit- 
 ants of the simple dwelling. 
 
 From the side-window was seen a little garden, 
 once gay with flowers, but now almost a wilderness ; 
 for the hands which had cultivated it were power- 
 less. 
 
 Mr. Hale noticed Edith's look as she turned from 
 the window, and said, despondingly, 
 
 " I once took great pride in my little flower-gar- 
 den, particularly in raising mignonette, and am trou- 
 
 19*
 
 EDITH ; 
 
 bled by the appearance of neglect it wears. But 
 how can I help it ? " 
 
 She saw the conflict in his mind between repining 
 and submission, and said, gently, 
 
 " You must not allow yourself to be troubled by 
 such things, but hope in time all will be well. 
 Shall I begin to read ? " 
 
 He smiled assent. She took from the table a 
 small Bible, opened it, and, with her clear, musical 
 voice, read the fourteenth chapter of St. John. She 
 made no comments as she closed the sacred volume, 
 but immediately commenced the " Lady of the 
 Lake," as he had informed her of his admiration of 
 Scott. She read during the hour, and promised to 
 alternate with poetry, travels, and biography. 
 
 With the querulous manner which sometimes at- 
 tends consumption, Mr. Hale inquired, " Is it an 
 hour ? " Edith exhibited her watch, pleased that 
 the time had passed so quickly to the poor invalid, 
 and, promising to return to-morrow, left him. 
 
 These visits to Mr. Hale were continued whenever 
 his strength allowed him to listen to Edith's reading 
 without fatigue ; bift there were periods when he 
 was too feeble to sit up or fix his attention. He 
 often revived in the latter part of the day ; and oc- 
 casionally, in the long twilight of summer evenings, 
 she would pass a half-hour in entertaining him with 
 descriptions of English scenery, English amuse- 
 ments and customs. The invalid enjoyed these 
 accounts exceedingly. Sometimes she would, by
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 
 
 gentle, and to him insensible, transition, direct his 
 mind to objects of higher interest ; 
 
 " Allure to brighter worlds, and lead the way ; " 
 
 point out all the benefits resulting from protracted 
 illness, its lessons of an entire dependence on our 
 heavenly Parent, as well as gratitude to our friends ; 
 the utter unsatisfactoriness of all earthly possessions, 
 when the body is prostrate from illness or racked 
 by suffering. Above all would she urge him to con- 
 fide his wife and children to Him who had promised to 
 be "a father to the fatherless, and the widow's God." 
 In this way, a girl but eighteen years of age had 
 power. to mitigate suffering, pour the balm of conso- 
 lation into an almost desponding heart, and smooth 
 the passage to the tomb. The invalid often com- 
 plained of the length of the days ; that the hours 
 dragged so wearily along, particularly as he had no 
 timepiece, and could not hear the village-clock. 
 His wife has mentioned this, and observed she was 
 often obliged to leave the house to ascertain the 
 hour. 
 
 When Edith learned this, she determined to light- 
 en another burden. Accordingly, after the close of 
 her reading, she one morning took her watch from 
 her side, and, placing it in a little case of her own 
 manufacture, said playfully, 
 
 " I do not believe you always know what o'clock 
 it is, Mr. Hale : I shall therefore leave my watch 
 here until I need it, only requiring you to wind it
 
 EDITH; 
 
 at noon. You will then know exactly at what time 
 to expect me ; and Jenny shall be as punctual in 
 sending your jelly or broth as you will be looking 
 for them." 
 
 The poor man's face brightened almost to radiance 
 with surprise and delight. " How am I ever to 
 thank you for your goodness, Miss Dacres ? " 
 
 " By patient and cheerful submission," she said, 
 impressively, " to all your trials. I can do but little 
 for your comfort ; but I feel my efforts are Heaven- 
 directed."
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 " Star of Hope ! gleam o'er the billow; 
 Bless the soul that sighs for thee ; 
 Bless the sailor's lonely pillow, 
 
 Far at sea ! " 
 
 AUTUMN had succeeded to summer. The woods had 
 put on their gorgeous robes of purple and gold, pro- 
 ducing feelings of admiration and delighted surprise 
 to the Courtenay family, who had seen only the rus- 
 set tints of English foliage. Edith's enthusiastic 
 love of nature was amply gratified : she almost 
 dreaded to have a day pass, as lessening the beauty 
 around her. 
 
 The maple, walnut, creeper, blueberry, were all 
 copied, to prove to her friends in England the rich 
 autumn tints so often described by American poets 
 were no dreams of imagination. She spent hours in 
 painting every day, while the leaves remained ; and, 
 when the last subject for her pencil had departed, 
 she joined with her mother and the children in anti- 
 cipating a happy winter. In place of the fogs and 
 heavy rains of England, they heard of intense cold, 
 of tremendous snow-storms, &c. Jenny's apprehen-
 
 EDITH; 
 
 sions were, that they could not live in such a climate, 
 until Mrs. Courtenay told her the accounts to which 
 she had been listening were highly exaggerated, 
 and that, among the numerous English people who 
 resided in the United States, few had felt any serious 
 results from the severity of the winters. 
 
 Mr. Courtenay always returned early from Boston, 
 and had promised to read aloud during the long 
 evenings. Then the merry sleigh-bells were to be a 
 great amusement. The cheerful wood-fire, flaming, 
 crackling, and flashing, had an effect so exciting, it 
 would be delightful to gather round it at twilight, 
 or for the girls to dance by its light and Edith's 
 music. 
 
 Edward, too, was at home, and always bright and 
 cheerful. He promised them some sleigh-rides. 
 Letters from England would be doubly valuable 
 when the out-of-door enjoyments were curtailed. 
 With so many innocent pleasures in perspective, 
 who could dread storms ? All was to be sunshine 
 at home ; and the tempest might rage without, and, 
 but for the sailor, would be unheeded. 
 
 Edith was in her " sanctum," late in October, giv- 
 ing the finishing touches to a pencil-sketch, when 
 Marion suddenly entered, exclaiming, "Letters, sis- 
 ter ! letters from England ! " 
 
 There was one, in a strange hand, sealed with 
 black ; but, as the other was Arthur's writing, she 
 was not much alarmed. On opening the former, 
 she read as follows :
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 227 
 
 " LONDON, September, 18 . 
 
 " Miss D ACHES, As executor to the kte Mr. Bolton, I hasten 
 to inform you of his death, in the latter part of July, and to an- 
 nounce, that, in his will, he mentions the sum of one thousand 
 pounds, loaned by your father many years ago ; which amount, 
 until lately, he has been unable to refund. His particular request 
 was, that this debt, with interest, should be paid to you as soon as 
 possible after his decease. Accordingly, you can have said sum, 
 at any time, by bills of exchange on London, at ten days' sight. 
 " Very respectfully yours, &c., 
 
 " JOHN STEVENS." 
 
 Arthur's letter announced the engagement of Mary 
 to Sir George Thornton ; an event very pleasing to 
 all, as Sir George was a man of great moral worth 
 and very handsome fortune. " Mary," he continued, 
 " has quite recovered her smiles ; but, I am sorry to 
 say, my father's health is very indifferent : he appears 
 at times quite feeble, and, I think, is losing his inte- 
 rest in the cultivation of his estate, which once so 
 wholly occupied him. Mrs. Leslie is very attentive 
 to him ; and I cannot help rejoicing that he has in 
 his wife a woman who is willing to resign her love 
 of company, &c., to devote herself to the care of his 
 health. 
 
 " The visitors have departed, and (Mary writes me) 
 the house seems more like the happy home if, used 
 to be. There. is one wanting, dearest Edith, to shed 
 light on it. "When I leave Cambridge, I think I 
 shall add to my dear father's happiness, as I shall 
 then be able to walk with him about Glen dale, urge 
 his riding," &c.
 
 EDITH; 
 
 Edith left her room to announce to her mother the 
 good news of her father's loan being paid. She was 
 full of gratitude for this addition to her property, and 
 knew how feelingly Mrs. Courtenay would sympa-. 
 thize in her happiness. As she entered the parlor, 
 she was shocked to observe her mother in tears, and 
 Mr. Courtenay pacing the room in much apparent 
 agitation. She stepped rapidly towards him : 
 
 " What is the matter, sir ? Has any thing hap- 
 pened to distress mamma ? " 
 
 Mr. Courtenay exerted himself to say, 
 
 " Yes, Edith : I have just announced to my wife 
 the probability of my sailing for Malta immediately, 
 on business for Mr. Granville. He is desirous of 
 going to England, and cannot leave his mercantile 
 affairs unless some one acquainted with the kind of 
 trade in which he is engaged can take his place. 
 
 " In a letter, received this morning, he makes me 
 a very advantageous offer of partnership, which, 
 situated as I am, I think I ought to accept. For my 
 family's" sake, I feel I must go. I may only be 
 absent a few- months. I need not dwell upon the 
 distress it will be to me r the idea of another separa- 
 tion is dreadful. But, Edith, I am doing business 
 to very little profit : my advantages in' becoming a 
 partner in Mr. Granville's house will almost insure 
 prosperity. Should I hesitate, then ? I am to be 
 established here on my return." 
 
 Edith's courage sunk at this statement : all their 
 cheerful visions for the winter overthrown, and her
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 
 
 mother again to be desolate, and in a foreign land, 
 denied the sympathizing tenderness of Mrs. Har- 
 court, her comforter in previous hours of sorrow ! 
 She turned from Mr. Courtenay to her mother, un- 
 able to endure his look of deep distress ; but it was 
 little consolation, as she heard her low sobs, and saw 
 her bowed in affliction too deep for words. She 
 drew her head to her bosom, and, resting it against 
 her beating heart, said, " Mamma ! dearest mamma ! 
 have courage ; for Mr. Courtenay's sake, be calm : 
 you will only add to his anxieties, and make yourself 
 ill. I will do all I can for your happiness : do try 
 to be comforted ! The winter will soon be over ; 
 and, when spring returns, we shall be together 
 again." But how vain were her words ! Her mo- 
 ther seemed insensible to every thing but the one 
 sad truth, her husband was to leave her. Poor 
 Edith's mind and body ached with the feelings which 
 oppressed her. How was she to support all the anx- 
 iety and thought in which she should be involved? 
 
 She suddenly remembered a lady in the neighbor- 
 hood who had been attentive and kind to her mother. 
 She knew her a sensible woman, and felt she might 
 suggest some sources of comfort, which, in her wea- 
 ried state of feeling, she had not the capability 
 to do. 
 
 Mrs. Lester came very promptly, and, by her 
 good sense and strong powers of reasoning, con- 
 vinced Mrs. Courtenay of the importance of firmness 
 in a case where the advantages seemed so apparent, 
 
 20
 
 230 EDITH; 
 
 that any wife ought to arm herself with sufficient 
 fortitude to bear a separation of a few months. 
 Aided by Edith, she succeeded in restoring her to 
 some degree of calmness ; promised to visit her often 
 during the long winter evenings ; and took Caroline 
 and Marion home with her, to relieve their mother 
 of all care for them during the preparations for Mr. 
 Courtenay's departure. 
 
 Of course, Edith's aid was in requisition in the 
 necessary outfit for a voyage, and her visits to Mr. 
 Hale had been occasionally interrupted ; but she 
 made every effort to read at least twenty minutes, 
 assuring him, when Mr. Courtenay had sailed she 
 would make up the time. 
 
 " It will be too late then," he said, mournfully. 
 
 " We will hope not ; but, should this be the allot- 
 ment of God's providence, I trust you are willing to 
 submit, in the full assurance that all things are 
 ordered in Infinite Wisdom." 
 
 He covered his face with his hands, and slowly 
 the tears trickled over his wan cheeks : he tried to 
 rouse himself, as he murmured, " Yes, Miss Dacres, 
 
 I can submit ; but my wife, my two boys " He 
 
 could say no more. 
 
 " Your wife," Edith replied, " is active, energetic, 
 and a thoroughly good woman : have no fears for 
 her. For the next two years, I will provide for the 
 boys : at the end of that time, they will be able to 
 work for themselves. I have unexpectedly come 
 into possession of some property ; and to what better
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 231 
 
 use can I apply a part of it than the education 
 
 of" Orphans, she would have said; but the 
 
 word died on her quivering lips, and the sentence 
 remained unfinished. 
 
 Mr. Hale's hands were removed from his face : his 
 eyes were lighted by almost supernatural brightness, 
 as he solemnly said, 
 
 " My God, thy will be done ! " 
 
 In these few words was Edith's reward for patience, 
 effort, and firmness. She saw the mind of the suf- 
 ferer was now in a state to bear humbly the impend- 
 ing stroke ; and her heart beat high with gratitude 
 at the blessed result of her exertions. 
 
 A ship was fitting out for the Mediterranean, to 
 sail in November, in which Mr. Courtenay engaged 
 a passage. Active preparations for the voyage im- 
 mediately commenced ; and Edith observed with 
 satisfaction that her mother's efforts at self-govern- 
 ment had been so far successful that she aided very 
 energetically her own labors on all necessary occa- 
 sions. 
 
 A heavy burden of care was on Mrs. Courtenay's 
 heart, oppressing her, at times, very severely : but 
 she knew it could be borne, if she exerted herself ; 
 and, as she saw Edith's untiring energy, the springs 
 of her character seemed to resume their wonted 
 tension ; and she performed her required duties, 
 cheered by the light of her daughter's sympathy 
 and devoted affection. 
 
 The time of separation was rapidly approaching.
 
 EDITH; 
 
 Edward was to accompany his father, and, if his 
 love of the sea could be conquered, to enter the 
 counting-house of Mr. Granville. Every thing was 
 now ready, the ship to sail on the llth. 
 
 Edith prepared herself for a sad trial on the day 
 of departure, knowing how dreadful it would be to 
 her mother. On the evening previous, the children 
 returned. Mr. Courtenay told them, in the course 
 of their conversation, how abundant were the islands 
 of the Mediterranean in beautiful birds, flowers, &c. ; 
 how various the curiosities he should collect for 
 them ; and, with many injunctions to be attentive 
 to their mother and sister, dismissed them for the 
 night. 
 
 The wind was fair in the morning. Mr. and 
 Mrs. Courtenay went early to Boston. Knowing 
 her mother's grief would be increased by seeing her 
 emotion, Edith determined not to say farewell. 
 
 In the evening, Mr. Courtenay returned, as the 
 wind had changed to the eastward, and delayed 
 the ship. When he entered the house, Jenny met 
 him, and said, " I am sorry to see you back, sir." 
 
 " Why ? " said he : " that is not in your usual 
 style of kind feeling, Jenny." 
 
 " Oh, sir ! I think it is a very bad sign for any 
 one to return who has once said good-by." 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay did not hear this silly remark of 
 Jenny's ; but Edith did, and, feeling shocked by her 
 superstitious folly, requested her not to repeat such
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 233 
 
 nonsense before the children, to impress their young 
 minds so painfully. 
 
 The following day, Mr. Courtenay sailed. Al- 
 though Edith made all exertion to keep calm, yet, 
 when the door closed upon him, she felt chilled to 
 the heart, and, running to her chamber, threw her- 
 self on her bed, and burst into an agony of tears. 
 Her power to support the change of prospects for 
 the winter seerned to have forsaken her. She re- 
 mained some time nearly exhausted ; but God, 
 whose purposes are far beyond human ken, saw 
 fit to inspire her, from the depths of his wisdom, 
 with sudden fortitude. She dashed the tears from 
 her eyes, braced her nerves to meet her mother and 
 the children, and resolutely entered upon the em- 
 ployments of the day. 
 
 It was within a week after Mr. Courtenay sailed, 
 when Edith was suddenly summoned by Mrs. Hale, 
 as her husband was evidently worse. 
 
 When she entered the room, she observed the 
 change in the sick man's appearance. He appeared 
 glad to see her, though hardly able to speak. A 
 clergyman had been with him. His mind seemed 
 solemnized, and perfectly prepared for the event, 
 which was evidently very near. In broken accents, 
 he thanked his young friend for all her devoted 
 kindness to him, and hoped for a re-union in a 
 " better world." 
 
 When she called the next day, he had been dead 
 several hours. 
 
 20*
 
 234 EDITH; 
 
 Mrs. Hale told her, on returning the watch, that 
 her husband's eyes had been directed towards it as 
 long as he could see. " It has been," she observed, 
 " a great comfort to him through the autumn ; has 
 cheered many hours, which would otherwise have 
 been very dreary. The geranium and rosebush, 
 Miss Dacres, he begged you would accept as his 
 last gift." The poor woman was quite overcome. 
 Edith pressed her hand, deeply touched by her man- 
 ner, and the remembrance of her humble friend's 
 kind thoughts of her in his last hours. 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay had decided to instruct her two 
 daughters during the winter ; and Edith had volun- 
 teered instruction in drawing and music. Of course, 
 this occupied much of their time ; but the evenings 
 were often very sad. There were frequent storms 
 of snow, which, with heavy gales of wind sweeping 
 round the house, made the two lonely beings look in 
 each other's faces for comfort, as the hours dragged 
 wearily along. 
 
 An occasional sleigh-ride was all the amusement 
 they had, except the visits of the neighbors, who 
 were very kindly attentive, and solicitous to enliven 
 their solitude ; but, at those periods when society 
 would have been most acceptable, the roads were 
 often impassable, and their friends were obliged to 
 remain within the shelter of their own homes. 
 
 As the year approached its close, Caroline and 
 Marion seemed rather disconsolate at the remem- 
 brance of England and its time-honored festivities.
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 235 
 
 Christmas was very little regarded in D ; few 
 
 persons celebrated it ; and the day would have 
 passed at Mrs. Courtenay's like other days, but for 
 Jenny's thoughtful decoration of the windows with 
 wreaths of evergreen, and her lamentations, that, 
 " for the first time, no mistletoe-bough could be 
 found for the kitchen." 
 
 " A merry Christmas, dear mamma and Edith ! " 
 said each child when the morning arrived : but 
 where the merriment was, or whence it should come, 
 no one knew ; for the elder members of the family 
 were in spirit far away. 
 
 " Still," said Mrs. Courtenay, " we are all in good 
 health ; and this is abundant cause for gratitude, if 
 not for more joyous feelings." 
 
 " Will New Year's Day bring us any gifts, 9o 
 you think ? " inquired Marion. 
 
 " I do not believe it will, my child ; for I cannot 
 afford to make presents now. We must wait, there- 
 fore, until papa returns with his curiosities." 
 
 On the 1st of January, 18 , the two young 
 girls wished each other a " happy New Year " in a 
 melancholy tone ; and, in spite of all their efforts, 
 the big tears rolled over their cheeks. " So differ- 
 ent," they exclaimed, " from last year ! Then we 
 had a nice warm fire to dress by; now we are so 
 cold ! Oh, how my fingers ache ! Mamma and 
 sister will be so dull too ! " 
 
 " I wish," said Caroline impatiently, " the day 
 was over. But we will go and kiss them." Off
 
 36 EDITH; 
 
 they ran, and were clasped in a warm embrace by 
 both. They looked a little more cheerful as they 
 heard Edith's kind congratulations; waited for her 
 to finish her toilet, and then founded towards the 
 parlor. "What a surprise awaited them ! How they 
 danced and capered for joy, as they observed nume- 
 rous beautiful English toys, books, and fancy arti- 
 cles, spread on the piano ! 
 
 " Where did they come from ? are they for us ? " 
 exclaimed both children. Why, mamma said there 
 would be no presents on New Year's Day." 
 
 " The box which contained these gifts," Edith 
 said, " arrived only yesterday. Fortunately, you 
 were both out. They came from England by a 
 London ship : they were sent by Grandmamma Har- 
 court, Margaret, and Mr. Leslie. Of course, they 
 were not expected ; and mamma was correct in say- 
 ing she did not think there would be any presents." 
 
 The two girls were delighted beyond description. 
 There was a dress for Jenny, beautiful gifts for their 
 mother and Edith, and so many books ! What hap- 
 piness in reading them aloud would be theirs for a 
 long, long time ! 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay looked more than usually cheerful 
 in seeing her children so delighted. They thought 
 not of cold : their only regret was, papa and Edward 
 were not with them to share their joy ; but they 
 should write, and tell them every thing. 
 
 When the first tumult was over, Edith approached 
 Mrs. Courtenay with a box. " This," said she,
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 837 
 
 "contains a gift I know, dear mamma, you will 
 prize." On opening it, Mrs. Courtenay perceived 
 two beautiful frames, one enclosing a miniature 
 view of Milton Church and its graveyard j the other, 
 a small basket, in which were delicately arranged 
 the flowers, grass, &c., from the graves of Ellen and 
 Emma, which had been gathered in their last walk 
 to the sacred spot. 
 
 The poor mother's heart was full: she turned 
 very pale. Edith feared she had touched a chord 
 which would vibrate too acutely ; but, in a few mo- 
 ments, a smile played round Mrs. Courtenay's lips ; 
 and, pressing Edith fondly in her arms, she mur- 
 mured, " My thoughtful, darling girl ! how can I 
 sufficiently thank you ? Was there ever any one so 
 blessed as I am in having you ? O my child ! may 
 God reward your devotion to me ! These gems will 
 to-day bring before my thoughts, with more than 
 usual vividness, my English home. That church, 
 those withered flowers, how fraught with sad re- 
 membrances ! Yet, associated with your affection, 
 dearest Edith, a halo seems to surround them." 
 
 The young Courtenays were conscientious chil- 
 dren, and, on retiring for the night, were fully 
 aware they had commenced the day in a very wrong 
 spirit. Tears were in Marion's eyes as she said, 
 " Caroline, we were wicked this morning to be so 
 cross. It has been in my mind several times during 
 the day, and I have longed to tell mamma how I
 
 238 EDITH; 
 
 fretted about the cold ; but I did not like to disturb 
 her. What shall we do?" 
 
 " I think J was much worse than you," replied 
 Caroline ; " for I am older, and I wished the day 
 over, a day which has proved so happy a one. 
 But, oh dear ! how hard it is to be good 1 It would 
 not be kind to distress mamma to-night, Edith is 
 reading to her : but we will tell the whole to-mor- 
 row ; and do let us try to behave better in future." 
 
 With this wise resolve, they were soon asleep. 
 The next morning, they went to Mrs. Hale's with a 
 book for each of the boys. The poor little fellows 
 were delighted : it was a ray of sunshine in their 
 sad home. 
 
 Edith had not heard from Eliza Sedley for a long 
 time ; and her letters from Arthur had been irregu- 
 lar, from the length of passages at that season. This 
 added to her feelings of gloom ; and very often her 
 eyelids trembled with the tears she could not allow 
 to fall on her cheeks : for her mother had shown so 
 much more firmness than she had expected, had 
 been so unnaturally calm the day her husband sailed, 
 that Edith feared, by any indulgence before her, 
 to awaken her subdued feelings. 
 
 It was- a cold, bleak morning in the latter part of 
 March, that news came of Mr. Courtenay's arrival 
 in Malta, " his health as good as usual, Edward in 
 fine spirits. It was not possible to name any time 
 when he might be expected home ; but he hoped in 
 the early summer."
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 239 
 
 There were other letters also, which announced 
 the death of Mr. Leslie. It was addressed to Mrs. 
 Courtenay, that she might break the intelligence to 
 Edith, who had only a note enclosed from Arthur, 
 briefly stating that his father's death was very sud- 
 den, that all particulars must be deferred until the 
 family were more tranquil. 
 
 The shock was very great to Edith. She never 
 thought the indisposition of which Arthur had writ- 
 ten was any cause of alarm, because, in succeeding 
 letters, there had been but slight allusions to it. 
 This might have been done to spare her any addition- 
 al anxiety ; and in that light she appreciated it. 
 
 Let us feel as we may; let joy attend our steps, 
 or sorrow darken our path, time speeds on. The 
 sun pursues his daily course, apparently unmindful 
 of individual feeling; but the record is on high. 
 Our sorrows are not forgotten ; our joyous emotions 
 are all registered ; and we often feel a confidence to 
 pursue our recurring duties, we hardly know why. 
 It was so with Edith and Mrs. Courtenay : one re- 
 joiced in the safety of her husband, the other 
 grieved at her lover's affliction ; but both met the 
 daily claims of those around them calmly and faith- 
 fully. Mrs. Courtenay repaid Edith's attention to 
 her by unceasing devotion, and a delicate refinement 
 of tenderness in all her actions ; never invading the 
 privacy of her sorrow, but watching every opportu- 
 nity to testify her entire sympathy, her deep affec- 
 tion. She realized, in its broadest sense, the sacrifice
 
 240 EDITH; 
 
 Edith must have made in leaving England ; how 
 much she owed her for her unwearying tenderness 
 at sea ; how much, since her residence in the Unit- 
 ed States, for her interest in the children's improve- 
 ment, and the uncomplaining spirit with which she 
 bore her separation from Arthur, even at a time 
 when her presence would have been such a comfort 
 to him. But, far from each other as they were, 
 Edith shared, in the depths of her heart, the affliction 
 of her lover; and the tender pathos of her letters 
 told how affectionate was her sympathy with himself 
 and his sis.ters. Could the winds have wafted to 
 him the sighs she breathed, the prayers she offered 
 for his restoration to tranquillity, he would have 
 blessed the strength of her affection : it would have 
 lent its aid to support him.
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 241 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 " They had told him tales of the sunny lands 
 
 Which rose o'er the Indian seas ; 
 Where gold shone sparkling from river sands, 
 
 And strange fruit bent the trees : 
 They had lured him away from his father's hearth, 
 With its tones of love and its voice of mirth." 
 
 BY the next arrival from England, Edith learned 
 that Mr. Leslie had appeared languid and feverish 
 for some days before his death, though apparently 
 but little worse than for many previous weeks. At 
 last he was attacked by paralysis, which, ere many 
 hours, terminated his existence. 
 
 Arthur wrote with great feeling of his loss, of 
 the affliction it caused his sisters and Mrs. Leslie. 
 The latter had never failed in her attentions, while 
 his father required any thing to be done. Her ex- 
 ertions had been so perfectly unfaltering, her gentle- 
 ness so soothing, that they all entertained the highest 
 respect for her. 
 
 Mr. Leslie had provided very handsomely for her 
 in his will ; and Arthur requested her to remain at 
 Glendale : but this she had declined, and would pro- 
 
 21
 
 EDITH 
 
 bably return to London in a few weeks. He was 
 deeply immersed now in business, taking possession 
 of the farm as its future master. He spoke earnestly 
 of his hopes of a re-union with Edith. She knew 
 he would come to New England when possible ; if 
 not for some time, she should patiently wait, know- 
 ing all would, with him, be the result of good judg- 
 ment and strong affection. 
 
 Not long after the arrival of this letter, she was 
 in Boston, executing some commissions for her mo- 
 ther, and, in passing through one of the streets, 
 met a lady looking very pale, but bearing the traces 
 of much beauty, and still in early youth. There 
 was something in the earnest blue eyes and noble 
 brow which suggested associations that were painful, 
 she could not tell why. The lady stopped, and, in 
 a tremulous voice, said, 
 
 " Edith Dacres ! " She started, gazed at her, and 
 almost shrieked, 
 
 " Fanny Gordon ! " 
 
 " No," said she, with a faint smile : " Mrs. Tal- 
 bot." 
 
 They were both much agitated. It was some se- 
 conds ere they spoke another word. At length 
 Fanny said, "Go with me to my lodgings, that I 
 may briefly explain the mystery of my being here, 
 the cause, &c. You need have no fears, Edith." 
 
 There was such an air of candor and self-respect 
 about her, that Edith felt assured all was right 
 within. The tale was soon told." When Fanny left
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 243 
 
 school in the manner she did (by bribing a servant 
 to unfasten the gate), it was to meet a lover. They 
 very foolishly, as she acknowledged, went immedi- 
 ately to Scotland ; were married. Lieut. Talbot was 
 an officer in the army under orders for India ; and, 
 determining not to go without her, she rashly con- 
 sented to the step which, she was aware, would ex- 
 pose her conduct to the imputation of more than 
 imprudence. They remained in retirement until 
 time for the embarkation ; Fanny never leaving her 
 lodgings, except to purchase clothing for the voyage. 
 Her husband, fortunately, had property independently 
 of his pay, by which she could be furnished with all 
 the requirements for a long voyage. During this 
 brief period, she knew nothing of her parents or 
 what might be their feelings, but, with the thought- 
 lessness of youth and the carelessness of an undis- 
 ciplined mind, sailed for India, without any attempt 
 to inform them of her fate or receive their forgive- 
 ness. 
 
 Long before she reached her port of destination, 
 remorse . for this want of filial confidence over- 
 whelmed her; and, but for the un deviating atten- 
 tions of her husband, she had been perfectly misera- 
 ble. There were visions of her invalid mother, 
 suffering for her misconduct ; her stern father's 
 indignation at her apparent contempt for all rules of 
 propriety in her elopement ; until, at times, her re- 
 flections were hardly to be borne. 
 
 She had not been long in India before the climate
 
 44 EDITH; 
 
 made ravages in her naturally fine' constitution. Her 
 husband effected an exchange for the British Pro- 
 vinces. They returned to England; and, having 
 already communicated her marriage to her parents 
 by letters, she sought them immediately upon her 
 arrival, with deep contrition for the sorrow she had 
 caused them. She was forgiven ; " and," as she 
 continued, " peace was restored to my mind, which, 
 under other circumstances, I had never known. O 
 Edith ! there is no love like a mother's, no sin great- 
 er than disobedience. We embarked for Halifax. 
 When near, as was supposed, our destined haven, 
 for the weather was very foggy, the ship sprung a 
 leak. We made for the nearest port, which proved 
 to be Portland ; from whence we came here, to go, as 
 soon as possible, to Nova Scotia. We shall sail in a 
 few days ; and I am thankful, dear Edith, for the 
 event, which, by sending us into other than our ori- 
 ginal port, should have permitted me to see you 
 once more." 
 
 Edith could hardly restrain her impatience suffi- 
 ciently to permit Mrs. Talbot to conclude her narra- 
 tive, so anxious was she to ask several questions. 
 When the last sentence was finished, instead of 
 expressing sympathy with her friend in the trials 
 through which she had passed, she abruptly inquired, 
 " Did you ever know a Mr. Henderson in India, 
 an Englishman by birth, but who has lived for a few 
 years in Smyrna ? " 
 
 " Mr. Henderson ? Assuredly I did. He was the
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 245 
 
 charm of our little society, so refined, highly edu- 
 cated, and so gentlemanly ! But, Edith, where did 
 you know any thing of Mr. Henderson ? and why do 
 you ask me about him ? " 
 
 " Oh ! " said Edith, " you are, you must be, the 
 Mrs. Talbot of whom he talked so much ; and how 
 dull I have been, not sooner to have thought of 
 you ! " 
 
 Fanny looked bewildered, until Edith told the 
 history of Mr. Henderson's visit at Mr. Courtenay's, 
 his long conversations about her, his admiration of 
 her talents, and the fascination of her manner. 
 
 " Yes, yes ! " exclaimed Fanny : " my husband 
 used to look a little irritated sometimes when Mr. 
 Henderson was so very polite : but wholly without 
 cause ; for, if I did occasionally appear like Fanny 
 Gordon, I was always, at heart, Mrs. Talbot. When 
 I eloped from a boarding-school, I committed a 
 serious indiscretion ; but, if I flirted now I am a 
 wife, I should commit little less than a crime. In 
 fact, Edith, I had almost forgotten Mr. Henderson ; 
 though he now returns to my memory as a very 
 agreeable person." 
 
 The two friends had related to each other all that 
 could interest, and separated with a promise from 
 
 Fanny that she would visit D the next day, with 
 
 her husband, to say farewell. They came, but only 
 for an hour or two, as they had been requested to be 
 ready to sail on the morrow.
 
 246 EDITH; 
 
 As Edith looked in Fanny's face, she could not 
 help expressing her regret at her loss of color. 
 
 " Oh ! say nothing of that, Edith : a cold climate 
 will soon restore my bloom ; but it will still take 
 some time to banish from my mind the sunny memo- 
 ries of my girlhood which come thronging around 
 me, and to restore my self-respect for the anxiety I 
 cost my parents and friends by my imprudence. 
 Were it not for Charles's kindness " (looking affec- 
 tionately at her husband, who was engaged in con- 
 versation with Mrs. Courtenay), " I should not even 
 now be very cheerful. But he has great firmness : he 
 has improved me very much. I often call to mind 
 the remark you made at school : ' There are elements 
 of a fine character in Fanny Gordon, and I trust yet 
 for a development of some good.' But, Edith, the 
 fault in my parents was loving me too well ; from 
 which cause, I knew no will but my own : I can say 
 no more." 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay was quite pleased with both Edith's 
 friends. She found Mr. Talbot well-informed, gen- 
 tlemanly, and agreeable ; while the contrast between 
 the reckless, headstrong girl at Elms Gate, and the 
 quiet, unaffected woman before her, was so great as 
 to fill Edith with wonder, and increase the interest 
 with which she looked upon the pleasant companion 
 of her school-days.
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 247 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 ' lie should have died in his own loved land, 
 
 With friends and kindred near him ; 
 Not have perished thus, on a foreign strand, 
 
 With no thought save of Heaven to cheer him. 
 But -what recks it now? Is his sleep less sound, 
 
 In the isle where the- wild winds swept him, 
 Than if home's green turf his grave had bound, 
 
 Or the hearts he loved had wept him? " 
 
 THE middle of April found the spring far in advance 
 of the usual season, and widely different from that of 
 the previous year. The young grass was of an eme- 
 rald green. Already a few hepaticas had appeared : 
 in the woods, already was seen abundantly the lovely 
 epigaea, that sweet flower so associated with the Pil- 
 grims, as the earliest harbinger of returning warmth 
 and reviving vegetation to those desolate strangers 
 on that storm-beaten coast. 
 
 Edith and her mother, among their simple plea- 
 sures, often towards evening, the period of calmest 
 thought, indulged in a walk. The two girls usually 
 accompanied them, their favorite stroll being towards 
 the beach, the bold rocks on the shore always sub- 
 ject for admiration and wonder ; for there are few
 
 248 EDITH; 
 
 such in England. And they would often continue 
 gazing on these, and on the ocean, as the tide rolled 
 in, until their minds were filled with the deep sense 
 of infinity which the restless motion and the mur- 
 muring sound ever bring to the thoughtful spirit. 
 
 In one of those walks, they met, one evening, a 
 gentleman with whom they were acquainted, and, as 
 usual, inquired, " Have there been any arrivals to- 
 day?" 
 
 " I believe," answered Mr. P., " there is one from 
 the Mediterranean; but the letters had not been 
 delivered when I left Boston." 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay seemed unusually excited, and, 
 grasping Edith's arm, said, " I feel extremely anx- 
 ious to learn what tidings this ship brings : it may 
 announce the time of Mr. Courtenay's leaving 
 Malta." 
 
 Edith looked at her mother affectionately, and, in 
 her usually tender manner, said, 
 
 " Do not be impatient, mamma : to-morrow will 
 certainly bring us letters, and to-morrow will soon 
 be here." She breathed forth these last words with 
 a touching and tremulous earnestness unaccountable 
 to herself; but, from the moment the gentleman had 
 mentioned the arrival of a ship from the Mediter- 
 ranean, there had been sadness at her heart. 
 
 The evening was coming on, and the clouds gather- 
 ing as if for a change of weather : the air was chill. 
 She wrapped her mother's shawl closely about her ; 
 and, taking the hand of Marion, they hurried
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 249 
 
 homeward, the two girls in fine spirits from the walk 
 and sea-breeze. The evening was spent cheerfully ; 
 for Edith endeavored to shake off the gloomy feeling 
 that was stealing over her, as if the wing of some 
 bird of evil omen had swept by her. Mrs. Lester 
 passed an hour with them ; and, when she left, it 
 was with a promise on Mrs. Courtenay's part to 
 return the visit the next evening. Edith followed 
 her to the door ; and as she saw the clouds had 
 rolled away to the eastward, and the bright stars were 
 glittering in the heavens, the clear sky quite cheered 
 her. She gazed at it with holy awe for a moment : 
 a few prayerful words were on her lips. She re- 
 turned to the parlor : her mother's countenance wore 
 an expression of deep seriousness, as it always did 
 when she expected letters. Jenny, when she came 
 in with the night-candles, seemed to loiter about the 
 room ; and Edith, alarmed by the idea that she would 
 give utterance to some of her prognostics, more than 
 usually frequent of late, advised her mother to retire. 
 When they met in the morning, both looked weary 
 and careworn : neither seemed desirous of conversa- 
 tion. But, as soon as the morning religious ser- 
 vices were over, and breakfast finished, they com- 
 menced the lessons with the children ; when Edith, 
 suddenly starting from her seat, exclaimed, " There 
 is a sound of carriage-wheels on the gravel-walk ! 
 Some one has arrived, perhaps with letters ! I will 
 go and see : sit still, mamma, do, till I return. Her 
 heart throbbed almost audibly as she left the room ;
 
 250 EDITH; 
 
 an indefinable sense of oppression was on her: but she 
 went towards the stable, whence came two gentle- 
 men, whom she recognized as intimate friends of Mr. 
 Courtenay. She sprang forward, and hastily said, 
 " Have you any news for Mrs. Courtenay ? " 
 
 A dead silence for a moment. 
 
 " Speak, sir ! oh, for God's sake, speak ! I read 
 in your looks that you bring sad tidings." 
 
 The elder gentleman took her hand, and, grasping 
 it as if in agony, said, in a hollow tone, "I have 
 come to tell you that Mr. Courtenay is dead ! " 
 
 A cry of deep anguish burst from Edith's lips. 
 " Dead ! dead ! O mamma ! mamma and her chil- 
 dren ! how can I break this overwhelming affliction 
 to them ? " She spoke not again : her brain seemed 
 on fire. The crushing of her mother's heart, borne 
 down by such a weight of woe, oh ! how was it to 
 be endured ? how was she to support the sight of her 
 grief ? 
 
 She staggered with the confusion of all these 
 rending thoughts, and was led into the parlor, in the 
 centre of which stood Mrs. Courtenay, rigid as mar- 
 ble, her hands upraised and clasped, as if in suppli- 
 cation to Heaven for pity. 
 
 Jenny and the two children were in tears. They 
 had heard Edith's shriek, and knew some dreadful 
 tale had been told. Mrs. Courtenay tried to gain the 
 door ; but her feet seemed rooted to the spot, till 
 Edith reached her, when she fell senseless in her 
 arms.
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 251 
 
 She was conveyed to her chamber, and, for an 
 hour, gave but the faintest signs of life. Edith and 
 her daughters hung over her in a state of feeling not 
 to be described. Mrs. Lester soon arrived, and their 
 united efforts succeeded in restoring animation ; but 
 her mind wandered, as if terror-stricken by some 
 awful event which she could not clearly remem- 
 ber. 
 
 Edith gazed on her mother's face with deep ear- 
 nestness, hoping she would ask some question, from 
 which she could gather a ray of hope that reason 
 was returning ; but the same rigidity of features, the 
 same unnatural wildness in her eyes, continued, and 
 no coherent words escaped her lips. The two girls 
 clung round Edith in such an agony of grief, that her 
 heart was almost broken as she looked from the mother 
 to them. She wrung her hands in actual despair at 
 the prospect before her : not a being but Mrs. Les- 
 ter on whom she could call for aid or advice ; and 
 how small would be the portion of time she could 
 allow her ! * 
 
 She removed the children from their mother's 
 presence, and then went below to see the gentlemen, 
 and inquire the circumstances of Mr. Courtenay's 
 death. From them she learned that his business 
 had very much exposed him to the weather. In the 
 early part of February, he had taken a violent cold, 
 which increased to lung-fever, and terminated his 
 life, after an illness of ten days. Letters had been 
 received from a friend, at whose house he was ill,
 
 252 EDITH; 
 
 stating all the facts, and giving assurance that he 
 had received every attention which kind feeling 
 could suggest, the best medical advice, and the 
 most devoted attendance from his son. 
 
 There were letters from Edward to his mother, 
 expressive of the most tender affection for her and 
 his sisters. He was to remain in the house of Gran- 
 ville and Co. for a time, until he should learn his 
 mother's wishes. These letters Edith read, in order 
 to inform the two gentlemen if any thing was to be 
 done in which they could be of assistance. They 
 took leave with many expressions of sympathy ; and 
 Edith returned to her mother. Mrs. Lester's kind- 
 ness was of the utmost value to her. She offered to 
 remain that night. Together they watched by the 
 bedside of the poor sufferer, and, towards morning, 
 had the comfort of seeing her sleep. 
 
 Days passed ; each successive one adding to Edith's 
 anxieties, and wasting her strength in constant watch- 
 fulness of her mother and the children. The former 
 continued very ill for a week, but, at the end of that 
 time, was able to sit up, take some slight nourish- 
 ment, and read her son's letters. She was very 
 calm ; but her hollow cheek and sunken eye told 
 the tale of her internal suffering. Edith often knelt 
 by her, bathing her hands in her warm tears, or 
 soothing her, in this dark hour, by gentle words of 
 comfort. But how could she point to the future as 
 offering any cheering prospects ? She kept from 
 her the knowledge that Mr. Courtenay, in his last
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 253 
 
 illness, grieved so much at the separation from his 
 wife and children, and, by these painful regrets, 
 aggravated his disease. Mr. Morgan had informed 
 her of this, and advised her to conceal, as far as 
 possible, every thing which could increase the sor- 
 row of the bereaved one ; and, as Mrs. Courtenay 
 asked very few questions, it was not a difficult 
 task. 
 
 When able to see any one out of the family, she 
 was visited by Mr. Harrison, the clergyman of 
 D , who was truly the embodiment of Gold- 
 smith's village pastor. His presence seemed to dif- 
 fuse tranquillity around ; and the children learned 
 to watch for his step, in the belief their mother 
 would be better after seeing him. His spirit was so 
 gentle, his words of comfort so hopeful, his faith 
 so fervent, it was impossible to be in his presence 
 without feeling its sanctifying influence. His words 
 fell on the stricken heart like dew upon the parched 
 earth. 
 
 Caroline and Marion often stood by him, gazing 
 earnestly in his face, as he would relate to them 
 incidents of his early life, when he struggled, with 
 his widowed mother, to earn a scanty support for 
 his little brothers. The trials they had endured 
 were borne calmly and heroically, because they had 
 always a firm reliance on the goodness of God, and 
 his promise to be a father to the fatherless. Many 
 a day had dawned with hardly money enough in 
 the house to furnish one meal. His sorrowing mo- 
 
 22
 
 254 EDITH; 
 
 ther would smile through her tears, and say, " Keep 
 up your spirits, my son : we are not forsaken." And 
 it proved so ; for her patient endurance, her reli- 
 gious faith, had their reward ; and, ere the close of 
 life, she saw her sons amply provided for by their 
 honest industry, and was herself blessed by a com- 
 petence. 
 
 The season was one of peculiar loveliness. Every 
 thing in the vegetable world seemed rejoicing in 
 renewed existence. To many minds this would 
 have been doubly sad ; but not so to Edith or her 
 mother, to whom spring appeared as a type of 
 immortality ; and, if denied the sad privilege of 
 visiting Mr. Courtenay's grave, adorned as it now 
 must be in the beautiful island where he rested, it 
 seemed not a place of cold banishment', but of sweet 
 repose. They could not help feeling that he would 
 have a consciousness of the soft airs which played 
 around him ; that he would hear the song of the 
 birds, and love each opening leaf and flower, as 
 they did. 
 
 However visionary this might seem to others, it 
 was comfort to them ; and often, as twilight stole 
 softly over the landscape, blending all things in such 
 beautiful harmony, their hearts, in unison, would 
 breathe forth an aspiration of love to the memory of 
 the dear departed. 
 
 We have said but little of Jenny during this 
 period of sorrow ; but her unobtrusive excellence 
 must not be forgotten. She was, if possible, more
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 255 
 
 devoted than ever to her mistress and Edith ; antici- 
 pating every wish, creeping noiselessly about the 
 house, lest her footsteps would disturb its sad qui- 
 etude. She was often in tears ; and the children 
 frequently sat with her for an hour, delighting to 
 talk of their father, and listening to instances of his 
 benevolence which occurred before they were old 
 enough to remember them. 
 
 She could not resist saying to Edith, " Do you 
 remember telling me I was foolish to talk as I did, 
 when my master came back, the day he expected 
 to sail ? You called it superstitious nonsense ; but 
 it proved a bad sign. 
 
 " No proof at all, Jenny, that you were otherwise 
 than superstitious. You cannot believe your saying 
 what you did had any thing to do with the death of 
 Mr. Courtenay." 
 
 " I don't know any thing about that : I only say 
 it was a bad sign, and I shall stick to it." 
 
 " Ah, well, Jenny ! you must, I presume, have 
 your own way, even at the expense of your personal 
 comfort ; but do not prophesy any more sorrows, I 
 beg, for mamma's sake." 
 
 " Suppose I do, Miss Edith : if there's nothing 
 in them, it's no matter." 
 
 Edith smiled at Jenny's logic, and left her. As 
 she closed the door, Jenny murmured to herself, " I 
 wonder what she calls the weight on her spirits that 
 she had the night before we heard of master's death. 
 That's not superstition, I suppose, but a presentiment.
 
 256 EDITH ; 
 
 Superstition for the kitchen, and presentiments for 
 the parlor ! Still, if she is an unbeliever, I wish 
 there were more Miss Ediths in the world. What 
 could we have done without her ? So devoted to 
 her mother, so fond of the two young ladies, and so 
 gentle with me, except when I talk of signs ; and 
 then how she looks at me with those great black 
 eyes ! " 
 
 Edith was not aware, in all probability, that the 
 depression under which she sometimes labored had 
 in it a slight tendency to superstition, or, at least, to 
 the indulgence of a belief, that, often before any 
 great event occurs, we seem to have a foreshadowing 
 of it. 
 
 Not many weeks after the news of Mr. Courte- 
 nay's death, letters were received from Mr. Hender- 
 son. He 'had learned the sad tidings in Philadelphia, 
 and immediately wrote Mrs. Courtenay, expressing 
 himself with the deepest sympathy in her affliction, 
 and with equal tenderness for the memory of her 
 husband's great virtues, the irreparable loss he must 
 be to his family, as guide, example, and protector. 
 . He dwelt -with much earnestness on his happy visit 
 
 at D ; gratefully acknowledging the kindness he 
 
 had 'received, and hoping he might see the family 
 once more before he sailed for Smyrna. Edith was 
 gratified by a respectful remembrance of herself. 
 Associating Mr. Henderson with many pleasant re- 
 miniscences, she joined her mother in admiration of 
 his talents and excellent feelings whenever he was
 
 Oil, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 257 
 
 mentioned. She was commissioned to reply to his 
 letters, as Mrs. Courtenay was unequal to the effort. 
 She described in glowing colors her meeting with 
 Mrs. Talbot ; the additional pleasure she had in 
 finding the being in whom she had felt so strong an 
 interest was a friend of her school-days ; and con- 
 cluded by hoping Mr. Henderson might be able to 
 visit D again before he left the United States. 
 
 22*
 
 258 EDIT H 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 " But thou, Hope ! with eyes so fair, 
 What was thy delighted measure? 
 For still it whispered promised pleasure, 
 And hade the lovely scenes in distance hail." 
 
 " MY dear Edith," said Mrs. Courtenay, one morn- 
 ing,' " I feel as if it were necessary for me to rouse 
 myself to something like thought for the future, 
 dark and gloomy as it now appears. A widow ! " 
 The oppression at her heart for an instant checked 
 the utterance of another syllable. In that one word 
 was concentrated all of human affliction ; but she 
 struggled to proceed. 
 
 " I- am left, I presume, with no property but my 
 cousin's legacy ; as Mr. Courtenay told me his chief 
 reason for going to Malta was to possess a certainty 
 of business, all his property having been barely suf- 
 ficient to pay his liabilities when he failed. His 
 creditors, I think, are all paid. This is, of course, 
 a great comfort to me. No one, I believe, suffers 
 from his misfortunes ; but how are my children and
 
 OK, HIE LIGHT OF HOME. 259 
 
 myself to be supported on my now very small in- 
 come ? It is not what it was in England " 
 
 " Say not another word, dearest mamma ! " ex- 
 claimed Edith, interrupting her, and throwing her 
 arms round her. " I am rich, the undisputed mis- 
 tress of nearly ten thousand dollars, now the loan is 
 paid. This will do for us all until I am " married, 
 she would have said ; but the recent lesson of the 
 uncertainty of all earthly expectations checked the 
 word ere it fell from her lips, and in its place gushed 
 forth tears she could not check. 
 
 " My noble, generous girl, my dear Edith ! I 
 never can consent to that. But I find I am hardly 
 able yet to think very steadily : we will say no more 
 at present." 
 
 " Mamma," said Marion, " what are we to do 
 without papa ? There is nobody to take care of us." 
 
 " Yes, my child, there is. It was God's pleasure, 
 for wise purposes, to take your father; but He is 
 left to us, and has promised to watch over the widow 
 and orphan : we must all trust in Him. Have no 
 fears, Marion : we shall be provided for, taken care 
 of, as you say. Do you remember the interesting 
 things Mr. Harrison told you, of his mother's 
 trust, and his own industry ? Caroline and yourself 
 must be studious, and make every exertion to acquire 
 a good education ; for the time may come when all 
 your capabilities will be called into action. We 
 must all try to relinquish some of the indulgences
 
 860 EDITH; 
 
 we had during papa's life. They were not nume- 
 rous then ; but they must be fewer now." 
 
 The family returned to the quiet routine of every- 
 day life with feelings subdued, but no longer gloomy 
 or desponding. Mrs. Courtenay had disciplined her 
 mind to a degree of patient submission beautiful to 
 witness. She might be daily seen instructing her 
 children, conversing tranquilly with Edith, or re- 
 peating her orders to Jenny, with such external 
 calmness as to impress awe upon those who witnessed 
 her efforts. 
 
 Mr. Harrison often came to see her ; and the at- 
 tentions of Mrs. Lester, as well as of many other 
 neighbors, were undeviating : in fact, her situation 
 had called forth so much sympathy and tenderness, 
 that she would often say, " I could not have found 
 warmer friends in my native land. How I shall 
 always love and respect the warm-hearted Ameri- 
 cans ! " 
 
 On one occasion, when Mrs. Courtenay and Edith 
 were with the children in her chamber, Jenny came 
 hastily in, saying, " Miss Edith, some one wishes to 
 see you in the parlor ; and, superstition or no super- 
 stition, I think it's a good sign." 
 
 " Who is it ? " said Edith. 
 
 " A stranger," replied Jenny, and closed the door. 
 
 " Mamma, I think it must be Mr. Henderson : 
 you know he promised to see us, if possible, before 
 his return." And, as Edith pronounced these words, 
 a slight blush overspread her cheeks at the remem-
 
 OK, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 261 
 
 brance of the interest she knew he had felt for her. 
 She hardly wished to see him, but knew she must. 
 So, summoning all her courage to her aid, she darted 
 down stairs, opened the parlor door, and, with 
 a wild scream of delight, was clasped in Arthur's 
 arms.
 
 EDITH 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 "I must go o'er the sea to other lands : 
 It is the call of duty. But fear not : 
 I shall return ; and then our loves are sure. 
 Dream not of danger on the sea : one Power 
 Protects us always, and the honest heart 
 Fears not the tempest." 
 
 IN order to account for Arthur's sudden appearance 
 
 in D , it will be necessary to return to England 
 
 and to Glendale. 
 
 After he graduated, which he did with the first 
 honors in his class, he deferred for a time the 
 commencement of a profession, to devote himself to 
 his father, whose increasing indisposition required 
 constant attention, even before the symptoms became 
 alarming. 
 
 The circumstances connected with Mr. Leslie's 
 death have already been related. Soon after the last 
 duties had been paid, and Arthur became heir to the 
 estate of Glendale, his tenantry, in token of their 
 attachment, assembled to "do him honor," as they 
 termed it, in front of the house, and, with uncovered 
 heads, offered condolence for his parent's loss, and
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 263 
 
 would have evinced, by outward demonstrations, their 
 joy at his accession to the property; but he stepped 
 forward, and, after gracefully thanking them for their 
 evidence of kind feeling, checked all attempts at 
 noisy manifestations of pleasure. He told them the 
 loss of his father was irreparable. That father had 
 been his guide and counsellor during his boyhood, 
 his friend and companion in youth. In his footsteps 
 he hoped to follow, in endeavoring to promote the 
 happiness of his tenantry. Their wants he would be 
 ever ready to relieve, their grievances to redress, to 
 the utmost of his power. They should be allowed 
 all the privileges consistent with the preservation of 
 good order ; and, in return, he should require ob- 
 servance of his rules, temperance, orderly con- 
 duct, careful cultivation of their little farms, &c. 
 Any opposed to his regulations had liberty to go 
 whenever they pleased. 
 
 He bowed, and entered' the house. Instead of the 
 loud cheer and boisterous shout, there fell upon his 
 ear, as he retired, a murmured sound of " God bless 
 the young landlord ! " 
 
 From that period, Arthur was deeply engaged in 
 business, with little time for rest ; though many a 
 fond feeling was wafted towards the Western shores, 
 and Edith's image ever mingled with his dreams. 
 To accomplish settling the estate was now doubly 
 important, as, at the close of his labors, he hoped to 
 go to the United States, unless some probability oc- 
 curred of the Courtenays' return to England. He
 
 264 EDITH; 
 
 was almost disheartened when Edith's letter an- 
 nounced Mr. Courtenay's departure for the Mediter- 
 ranean. He was well aware, that, under these 
 circumstances, she would never leave her mother. 
 He also knew the weight of anxiety which would 
 devolve on her, when she felt herself the only per- 
 son to whom Mrs. Courtenay could look for sympa- 
 thy, or indeed companionship, during her husband's 
 absence. His father's aifairs were left in very good 
 order ; but there was a vast amount of business to 
 arrange, new leases to be made out, deeds to be exa- 
 mined, legacies to be paid, his sister's property to be 
 re-invested, Mrs. Leslie's jointure to be remitted, 
 &c., all requiring time and personal attention. 
 
 Mrs. Harcourt he saw whenever he was able to 
 leave home ; but that did not often occur. She sent 
 for him one day, informing him of some papers in 
 her possession which she thought might be of im- 
 portance to Mrs. Courtenay. On his arrival in Mil- 
 ton, she showed him a package, which appeared to 
 contain a legal document, accompanied by some let- 
 ters ; but, of course, he could learn nothing from their 
 direction. In answer to his immediate inquiries, he 
 learned that the next ship would sail for Boston in 
 not less than a fortnight (it must be remembered 
 there were no steamers, and but few packets, then) ; 
 and he took charge of the package, to forward it, 
 with his own letters, when the time should arrive. 
 
 His business matters were drawing to a close : the 
 amount of property for himself was thirty thousand
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. '265 
 
 pounds, independently of Glendale Farm ; for each 
 of his sisters, ten thousand pounds. Mary was to be 
 married at the expiration of her mourning, as she 
 resolutely refused to think of a wedding while her 
 heart grieved, as it then did, at the recent death of 
 her father. 
 
 At this time, the sad news of Mr. Courtenay's 
 death reached England by letters to Mr. Granville, 
 who had arrived but recently. 
 
 Arthur was inexpressibly shocked : deep commi- 
 seration for Mrs. Courtenay, anxiety almost amount- 
 ing to agony for Edith, determined him to go imme- 
 diately to Boston. 
 
 Mrs. Leslie had not left Glendale ; and she con- 
 sented to remain with Mary and Matilda until 
 Arthur's return, which he thought would not be 
 prolonged beyond four months. He procured an 
 agent to take care of his estate ; bade farewell to Mrs. 
 Harcourt and Margaret Granville, who loaded him 
 with letters, messages, &c. ; and sailed in the next 
 ship. 
 
 The passage was short for those times, twenty- 
 three days. On landing, he learned from the British 
 consul where Mrs. Courtenay's house was situated, 
 and, with the speed of a lover, soon reached it. 
 
 Jenny admitted him, and would have screamed 
 but for his raising his hand towards her mouth, and 
 putting a finger on his own lips. "Dear, dear!" 
 she whispered as he entered the parlor : " what will 
 Miss Edith say ? I've had a bright feeling all this 
 
 23
 
 266 EDITH; 
 
 morning : I knew something would happen. I do 
 wonder if she will call this superstition or presenti- 
 ment, my feeling so bright ! " 
 
 " Hush, Jenny ! and run for Miss Dacres : say 
 not a word as to who it is." 
 
 We have seen how faithfully she executed her 
 mission. To account for Jenny's " bright feeling," 
 we must say, it probably was the result of clear air 
 and warm sunshine, which for some days had been 
 strangers ; but poor Jenny, since her arrival at 
 
 D , had indulged more than ever in signs and 
 
 omens about every thing.
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 267 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 
 ' It is not while beauty and youth are thine own, 
 
 And thy cheeks unprofaned by a tear, 
 That the fervor and faith of a soul can be known, 
 
 To which time would but make thee more dear. 
 Oh ! the heart that has truly loved never forgets, 
 
 But as truly loves on to the close j 
 As the sunflower turns on her god, when he sets, 
 
 The same look which she turned when he rose." 
 
 IT was some time ere Edith recovered from the agi- 
 tation into which she had been thrown by Arthur's 
 sudden appearance. She was pale, even to ghastli- 
 ness, and so completely overcome as to be scarcely 
 able to speak. Her feelings, at length, found relief 
 in a shower of tears. Arthur was distressed at the 
 effect of his unexpected arrival : but, as he told her, 
 he had no other course to pursue, unless he waite'd 
 for the next packet ; " and I do believe, Edith, you 
 would prefer to be a little alarmed, than have my 
 appearance delayed a fortnight later, how is it ? " 
 She smiled a reply. Could he have fully realized the 
 joy, the relief, his presence brought, he would have 
 been amply repaid for all he had endured when sepa- 
 rated from her.
 
 268 EDITH; 
 
 " But, Arthur," she soon said, " in our happiness, 
 we must not forget mamma's sorrow. I will go to 
 her, and bring her to you. She is sadly altered ; but 
 you will not, I know, appear to notice it." 
 
 Poor Mrs. Courtenay was indeed altered. Her 
 deep mourning-dress and widow's cap, while they 
 changed her whole appearance, threw a great interest 
 over her ; and as she entered the room, leaning on 
 Edith's arm, Arthur thought he had never seen a 
 figure which impressed him with such reverence. 
 He kissed her pale cheek with deep emotion ; and, 
 while his eyes glistened with the moisture he wished 
 not to check, he gently and affectionately led her 
 thoughts to England, to Mrs. Harcourt, and the 
 many letters for herself and daughters. 
 
 He then presented the package, which seemed to 
 excite Mrs. Courtenay's surprise. Unable to surmise 
 its contents, she requested Edith to open the docu- 
 ment, while she read the letter. 
 
 In a moment, a great change passed over her 
 face. She trembled, yet not as in distress. Ere she 
 could have finished the letter, Edith threw down the 
 paper, and, clasping her mother's neck, exclaimed, 
 in a tumult of joy, " Mamma ! God be praised for all 
 his goodness to us ! " 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay looked up with an expression of 
 intense gratitude, as she said, reverently, 
 
 " Oh, may I indeed be grateful, humble as I ought 
 to be ! From this letter, I learn the death of my 
 aunt, whom I have not seen for many, many years.
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 269 
 
 She died unmarried, and has left me five thousand 
 pounds, as her nearest relative, a bestowment as 
 wholly unexpected to me as if she had never lived ; 
 for she disapproved my having married an Ameri- 
 can." This turn of fortune was most gratefully 
 received by all : mingled, however, with the joy, 
 was the memory of Mr. Courtenay. How happy he 
 would have been, could he have lived to see his 
 family so independent as it regarded property, 
 anxiety for the future removed ! But they all meekly 
 bowed in submission to Him who gave the blow, in 
 the firm belief it was directed by unerring Wisdom 
 and Goodness. Events had crowded so rapidly 
 on our friends, that, towards evening, all looked 
 wearied by excitement and deep thoughts. 
 
 Edith seemed almost bewildered with joy; and, 
 as she saw Arthur looking earnestly at her, she 
 more than once said, " Are the events of to-day a 
 dream ? " 
 
 " I am sure I hope not," he said ; " for, after all 
 the anxiety we both have had, the tedious days that 
 have passed since that sad morning when I saw you 
 on the deck of the ' Galatea,' the weary night-watches 
 I had while you were at sea, if my present happiness 
 be a dream, Edith, I pray not to awaken." 
 
 After the lapse of a few days, when the minds of 
 Edith and her mother were tranquillized, Arthur 
 consulted their wishes about an immediate return to 
 England. It was his desire to be married before 
 leaving the United States, and that the family should 
 
 28*
 
 
 270 EDITH; 
 
 accompany him. Mrs. Courtenay could not hasten 
 her removal, as a ship was expected from Malta, by 
 which her husband's papers, &c., were to be sent. 
 Then the furniture was to be sold, the house to be 
 relinquished, &c., which could not be done until after 
 the arrival of the ship. Edith would not consent to 
 leave her mother in America ; nor would she be mar- 
 ried at present, out of respect to the memory of Mr. 
 Courtenay, who had been as a parent to her. 
 
 Arthur was desirous of seeing some of the world- 
 renowned scenery of the United States. After 
 various arrangements, it was at length decided he 
 should go to Washington, Cincinnati, &c., and return 
 by the Falls of Niagara, stopping a short time in New 
 York. The season was beautiful for the tour ; and, 
 while he descanted to Edith upon the sublime and 
 beautiful scenery they should so much enjoy to- 
 gether, she said, "I know, dear Arthur, all the 
 delight it would give me ; I can imagine no higher 
 enjoyment than to be with you amid such rich and 
 varied scenes ; I know I need the change, for I have 
 had much care and sorrow for one so young : but 
 the other side of the picture is my widowed mother, 
 with only her two children at home ; or, indeed, only 
 one, if Caroline went with us. You must not urge 
 it, as I do so reluctantly refuse any request which 
 you make ; but my sense of duty tells me I ought to 
 forego the enjoyment of this tour, for the sake of one 
 who has been so deeply afflicted, and who still needs
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 
 
 me. Arthur said no more : he respected this stern 
 idea of right. 
 
 He remained a week or two at D , during 
 
 which Edith, her mother, and the children accompa- 
 nied him in drives all round the beautiful country 
 near Boston, which hitherto they had had few oppor- 
 tunities of enjoying. Jenny had her share of plea- 
 sure also ; for Arthur brought a man-servant with 
 him, who was often her attendant. She well de- 
 served to be remembered in the way of kindness ; 
 for there was no pause in her devotedness to Mrs. 
 Courtenay or the children. 
 
 They all visited Nahant, explored its various 
 claims to wonder and admiration. Arthur's love of 
 nature was not less enthusiastic than Edith's ; and 
 he could hardly find words to express his emo- 
 tions as he looked upon the grandeur of the scenery 
 around him. Every day, the family were more and 
 more impressed by the beauty of the views in New 
 England. 
 
 Arthur often rallied Edith on her strong American 
 principles, her admiration of the bold rocks, the 
 ocean, &c. Sometimes he playfully told her, he 
 feared she would regret leaving them. She looked 
 at him with a serene, steadfast look, and uttered, in 
 her sweet voice, the single word, "Glendale." It 
 spoke volumes ; and his eyes beamed on her with 
 perfect happiness at the prospect of her sharing with 
 him that home, so dear to both as the scene of their 
 early lives ; where together, in the freshness of youth,
 
 EDITH; 
 
 they had enjoyed so much in rambling through 
 woods, gathering wild flowers, or lingering on the 
 grassy banks of the brooks, watching their miniature 
 falls over the rocky beds. The visits to the cottages 
 were to be renewed : they should be abundantly able 
 to assist the worthy poor, to aid the sick, and comfort 
 the afflicted. 
 
 There were visions of the library in winter even- 
 ings, the cheerful fire, the closed windows and drawn 
 curtains, the book, and the evening service, with the 
 household around them ; and, above all, there would 
 be, Arthur knew, humble and grateful hearts bow- 
 ing at the throne of the Giver of all good. In all 
 these anticipations, Mrs. Courtenay, the two girls, 
 and Jenny had their places : no happiness could be 
 very great unshared by them. Arthur still loitered 
 
 in D until after the ship had arrived from the 
 
 Mediterranean ; and then there was so much to enjoy 
 in his walks, drives, and horseback -rides, he almost 
 dreaded to leave. 
 
 The beautiful weather, so different from the fogs 
 among which he had lived, how he enjoyed it ! 
 In an excursion, one morning, when every thing 
 in nature seemed so much in harmony with their 
 feelings, Edith inquired if he had abandoned his 
 plan of studying for the ministry. 
 
 "I fear I must, as, when my thoughts were 
 directed towards the church, I had no idea I should 
 so soon be the master of Glendale, and have so many 
 cares and duties to perform. It now appears to me
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 273 
 
 impossible to become a clergyman, and retain the 
 guardianship of my tenantry, without neglecting one 
 of the claims on my time and attention : add to 
 which, there are so many young clergymen to whom 
 the living of Glendale would be valuable, that I now 
 should feel it wrong to think of it as my future field 
 of labor. Together, Edith, we can do a great deal 
 for the happiness of those around us, and, by our 
 example, reclaim the erring, strengthen the weak, 
 and encourage the timid ; while the rector of Glen- 
 dale will, I hope, be one, who, 
 
 ' In duty prompt at every call,' 
 Will 
 
 1 Watch and weep and pray and feel for all ; 
 Try every art ; reprove each dull delay ; 
 Allure to brighter worlds, and lead the way.' 
 
 I remember, Goldsmith's picture of a country cler- 
 gyman is your beau-ideal of human excellence ; and 
 I feel as you do about it." 
 
 " There are such men," said Edith, as the tears 
 
 rose to her eyes : " the good clergyman of D is 
 
 one. Could you have witnessed all his tenderness 
 to mamma. during the first hours of her bereavement, 
 his fondness for Caroline and Marion, his efforts to 
 subdue their grief, you would love and respect him 
 as I do. I shall grieve to part with him, and our 
 dear, excellent Mrs. Lester." 
 
 "Let us hope, then, they may visit England, when 
 we will both show our grateful remembrance of their
 
 274 EDITH; 
 
 kindness in the proffered hospitalities of Glendale 
 Farm. It assuredly will be my greatest happiness to 
 prove my attachment to you by showing respect to 
 all who, in any way, lightened your anxieties during 
 our separation." 
 
 "There have been other things, Arthur, which 
 have cheered me : dear indeed have they been when 
 my heart sunk at mamma's grief. The miniature 
 and the ring, talismanic has been their power 
 when the wind howled in dismal tones round our 
 house last winter ; when I thought of the stormy 
 ocean between us ; the uncertainty of our ever meet- 
 ing again ; and witnessed mamma's saddened expres- 
 sion, as she read my thoughts. I have often, 
 unperceived by her, kissed the ring ; and a smile has 
 been on my lips, a bright, hopeful feeling in my 
 heart."
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 275 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 ' Flow on for ever in thy glorious robe 
 Of terror and of beauty ; yea, flow on, 
 Unfit t homed and resistless! God bath' set 
 His rainbow on thy forehead, and the cloud 
 Mantled around thy feet. And he doth give 
 Thy voice of thunder power to speak of him 
 Eternally ; bidding the life of man 
 Keep silence, and upon thine altar pour 
 Incense of awe-struck praise." L. H. SIGOURHET. 
 
 ARTHUR left D for his tour : there were neither 
 
 tears nor sighs ; for all were anxious he should have 
 a privilege so valuable, of seeing the western cities, 
 the capital of the United States, and the Falls. 
 During his absence, the family of Mrs. Courtenay 
 had ample occupation for heart and hand, in prepa- 
 rations for a sale of furniture, and the necessary 
 arrangements for another passage across the Atlantic. 
 Caroline and Marion had made many pleasant ac- 
 quaintances, and were very popular with the young 
 people of the neighborhood. They prepared a bestow- 
 ment for all, on each of which was sealed a promise 
 of remembrance. They were saddened by the 
 thought, they should probably never meet again.
 
 276 EDITH; 
 
 The melancholy duty of examining Mr. Courtenay's 
 papers had been performed before Arthur left : all 
 the business affairs were adjusted, as his clear head 
 and strong mind suggested many things not likely 
 to occur to a lady. 
 
 The approaching departure of the Courtenay fami- 
 ly caused quite a sensation in the beautiful town 
 where they had resided for more than a year. Mrs. 
 Courtenay's benevolence and lady-like dignity had 
 gained for her friends in all classes. When first 
 among them, she had contrived, with very limited 
 means, to assist the needy, to prepare little comforts 
 for the sick, &c. ; and Edith, with her expressive 
 countenance, and graceful, dignified movements, her 
 gentle tones and patient ministries, had soothed 
 many an aching head, and whispered peace to many 
 a troubled heart. 
 
 They had come, mother and adopted daughter, as 
 strangers in a strange land ; they had found warm 
 friends in the day of sorrow ; and they should part 
 with deep regret on both sides. America was the 
 land of Mr. Courtenay's birth : he had loved his 
 country with the enthusiasm peculiar to the nation, 
 and to leave it for ever was a trial to the sorrow- 
 ing wife ; but the brief space of happiness she had 
 enjoyed with him there was a treasured remem- 
 brance. 
 
 Six weeks had passed since Arthur left. His let- 
 ters were filled with glowing descriptions of all he 
 saw : his manly nature knew how to appreciate
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 77 
 
 American character and American institutions. He 
 saw prosperity throughout the land, genuine and 
 noble independence in the heart. 
 
 He felt it would be profanation to attempt a descrip- 
 tion of the Falls of Niagara : their grandeur was 
 overwhelming ; and, as he expressed himself, " My 
 only feeling as regarded self, when I stood gazing 
 on this stupendous cataract, was, how insignificant 
 and humble do I feel in sight of this mighty mass of 
 waters, and the glorious scenery around ! It would 
 be needless, dearest Edith, to speak further of my 
 emotions ; my mind is agitated and exhausted : but 
 the time will, I hope, come, when I can converse 
 with you more clearly on these wonders." 
 
 Arthur returned to find every thing nearly ready. 
 They were to return in the " Galatea." This would 
 be delightful, as Capt. Henly still commanded her. 
 
 The most important part was now at hand. Edith 
 had consented to be married, as privately as possible, 
 a few days before sailing : her mourning was to be 
 laid aside for that occasion. Her birthday her 
 nineteenth had passed while Arthur was absent, 
 or it would have been in accordance with romance 
 to have been married on that day ; but Edith's life 
 had been rather too full of stern realities to feel dis- 
 turbed by this deviation from novel rules. 
 
 Jenny had, as usual, a fear of something ; and, as 
 she could conjure up no real cause for anxiety, she 
 at length conjectured Edith would be married with 
 her mother's wedding-ring, as she had always seen 
 
 24
 
 278 EDITH ; 
 
 her wear it. This, she was certain, would be a bad 
 sign ; but Arthur had guarded against an omen so 
 disastrous. 
 
 The morning dawned gloriously, just such a 
 morning as we sometimes have in August. A veil 
 of mist hung over the landscape, softening and sub- 
 duing the summer heat, as well as its vivid colors. 
 
 Edith was attired in a simple white muslin : her 
 beautiful hair was encircled by a wreath of orange 
 blossoms, and shadowed by a veil, except upon the 
 brow. The two Courtenays, who were as sisters to 
 her, were to be her only bridemaids. Caroline was 
 now a tall, fine-looking girl. 
 
 Just before she left the parlor for the carriage, she 
 called Arthur to look at a book open upon the table, 
 in which were carefully pressed some wild roses, and 
 under them written, " My seventeenth birthday : 
 his gift." " These flowers, Arthur," she said, " have 
 been my companions in all my little trials, in all my 
 great griefs." 
 
 He placed his arm round her, and said, in tones 
 tremulous from emotion, " Edith, the words I then 
 uttered I will faithfully indorse." 
 
 Edith then turned to Caroline and Marion, and, 
 presenting to each a small package, said, " This is in 
 remembrance of Sister Edith." 
 
 A few friends accompanied the wedding-party to 
 
 church. After the ceremony, they returned to D , 
 
 and then left for several days on a short tour. The 
 two girls opened the packages : they were found to
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 279 
 
 contain a deed of gift for one thousand dollars each, 
 to be devoted to their education under the best in- 
 structors. Edith knew their mother's property 
 would not allow very expensive instruction ; and it 
 was a source of grateful pleasure to be thus enabled 
 to furnish them with money to have the best masters 
 in drawing, music, and French. Jenny received a 
 present of one hundred dollars, in testimony of gra- 
 titude for her attention to Mrs. Courtenay and her- 
 self. " I give it you in gold," said Edith, " as you 
 have now, I think, been sufficiently long in this 
 country to associate bright feelings with the Ame- 
 rican eagle." 
 
 On her return, Edith visited her poor friends, 
 making liberal donations to all from Arthur's purse. 
 They remained in the house a day or two. The fur- 
 niture, it was decided, could be sold after the family 
 left, as Mr. Lester had kindly offered to arrange the 
 sale. 
 
 The day of departure came. Friends were left on 
 the wharf whom they hardly dared hope to see again, 
 and around whom clustered so many of life's choicest 
 sympathies and affections, that they could not repress 
 their tears. 
 
 As the bride and bridegroom stood on the quarter- 
 deck, a murmur of admiration was heard, elicited by 
 the surpassing loveliness of the one, and the manly 
 elegance of the other. 
 
 They gazed for a long time on the receding build- 
 ings in Boston, the wharves, Arthur without his
 
 280 EDITH; 
 
 hat, in token of respect for the people who so kindly 
 had welcomed his friends and himself to the shores 
 of New England. 
 
 Little now remains to be said. The " Galatea " 
 had a delightful passage. The arrival in the Thames 
 was hailed with mingled feelings. Poor Mrs. Cour- 
 tenay rested her head on Edith's neck as the ship 
 anchored off Tilbury Fort : the children clasped her 
 hands in mute recognition of her sorrow. Arthur 
 begged her to go below. He went on shore to order 
 a carriage, and returned in an hour. Mrs. Courte- 
 nay preferred to go to Mrs. Harcourt's, who was in 
 good health, and Margaret full of joy at the return 
 of her young friends. 
 
 When the meeting was over in Milton, Arthur 
 and Edith went immediately to Glendale, having 
 previously despatched the man-servant to announce 
 their arrival. As they approached the village, the 
 church-bells rang out a marriage-peal. This informed 
 the tenantry of their landlord's return. They left 
 their work to welcome the happy couple to their 
 home. This time, Arthur did not refuse their con- 
 gratulations ; and Edith, bending her beautiful head 
 from the carriage-window, kissed her hand to all. 
 
 Mary, Matilda, and Mrs. Leslie were in the hall ; 
 and, after cordially embracing each, Edith advanced, 
 when a fair girl suddenly stepped from the library, 
 and she was clasped to the warm heart of Eliza 
 Sedley. 
 
 She had been visiting in the neighborhood ; and
 
 OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 281 
 
 Mary had begged her to come to Glendale, as Edith 
 was so soon expected. Could aught have been added 
 to her happiness, it was this union with her school- 
 day friend, who remained some time with her. From 
 Eliza she learned Mrs. Lanmeer's death, and many 
 interesting events connected with Elms-gate House. 
 
 Mary Leslie was soon married, as the preparations 
 for the wedding had only been deferred until her 
 brother's return. She went with Sir George to 
 Thornton House, his country-seat in Devonshire, to 
 pass the remainder of the summer. Matilda accom- 
 panied the bridal-party, and was to divide her time 
 between her two sisters. Mrs. Leslie returned to 
 her friends in London, under promise of often visit- 
 ing Glendale, as if still a home. Her attentions to 
 Mary and Matilda during Arthur's absence had been 
 so uniform, her general deportment so marked by 
 dignity and refinement, that the household saw her 
 depart with great regret. 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay, with her daughters, very soon 
 removed to a cottage ornee in Glendale, near the 
 rustic bridge, where Arthur and his wife still love 
 to pause, and watch the stream falling over its bed of 
 rocks, as in their early days. Edward Courtenay, 
 entirely cured of his love of the sea, became, at 
 twenty-one, a junior partner in the house of Gran- 
 ville and Co., and the husband of Margaret. 
 
 We must not forget our friend Jenny, who, not- 
 withstanding her omens and signs, was married on 
 Friday, and in a heavy rain ; her husband elect telling
 
 282 EDITH ; OR, THE LIGHT OF HOME. 
 
 her they would break the charm by proving a mar- 
 riage could be happy, though the wedding-day was 
 one she had hitherto regarded with so little favor. 
 
 The geranium and rosebush bloomed in the green- 
 house at Glendale. 
 
 THE END.